


love is blindness

by unpeumacabre (kitcatkandy)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cultural Differences, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Eventual Happy Ending, Jealousy, Lots of it, M/M, Mutual Pining, but no dfp thorin will be found here, i hope it makes you cry, the dwori's v little and at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-11-28 08:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitcatkandy/pseuds/unpeumacabre
Summary: There was a click as Bilbo thrust open his door and glared out on Dwalin’s grave face.“Did Thorin send you?” demanded Bilbo, too incensed to care about propriety.“He wants to see you,” rumbled Dwalin. “He’s sorry.”“I like that!” shouted Bilbo. “Oh, I like that, very much! Well, you can tell the king, he can bloody well come and tell me himself, if he can find the time out of his busy schedule, and if it so pleases him!” and he slammed the door in Dwalin’s face.*Things have changed ever since Thorin's gold-sickness, and Bilbo no longer knows what to think of his relationship with Thorin. When he becomes the object of affections from a new dwarf friend of his, Thorin's seemingly-easy acceptance of their relationship both infuriates and confuses him.or, the one where Bilbo is courted, and Thorin doesn't want to interfere, bc he is NOT a dark fuck prince, and he wants Bilbo to be happy most of all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as one sentence in my notes: _i must counter dfp thorin somehow_  
>  & over the course of conversations w aidan ([mistergoblin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistergoblin/pseuds/mistergoblin) on ao3, [daddysdevito](https://daddysdevito.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) where we both ranted about our mutual hate for common portrayals of thorin and bilbo in fics, somehow i came up with this monster.  
> so thank you aidan for the beta and for our conversations :) guys check him out, he's amazing

It all started with the gifts.

Or rather, Bilbo supposed, it started with Thorin Bloody Oakenshield. Had started with that dinner to celebrate the reclamation of the mountain, with the Ered Nimrais, Ered Luin, Iron Hills, Ered Mithrin and even Orocarni royalty in residence, when Thorin had lifted Bilbo’s hand to his mouth, and named him _Khuzdbâha,_ Dwarf-friend.

Some days Bilbo could still feel a ghostly imprint of Thorin’s lips against the back of his hand. He rather thought Thorin had been drunk at the time, because there hadn’t been any such incidents since then.

So, yes, Bilbo supposed the whole affair started with Thorin’s hand in his, and the warmth of his smile…

*

A pompous knock on the doors of Mr Bilbo Baggins, Ringwinner, Luckwearer, Barrel-rider and _Khuzdbâha,_ woke the hobbit from his slumber one early morning in June. Bilbo looked at the clock on his wall and groaned. Half-past five - a full half hour before he usually rose and took breakfast. What could possibly be so urgent as to demand his attention at so early an hour?

Pulling his dressing-gown tightly around him, he stumped grumpily to the door and yanked it open.

A little beardling of roughly forty years stood before his door, a wilful smile on his face and his hands outstretched. On his palms was placed a large war-helm, intricately decorated with sharp geometric designs and a veritable excess of rubies and diamonds and other unnameable stones.

Bilbo just squinted at it, and thought it was rather too early in the morning to face this sort of nonsense.

When a few seconds had passed with no response forthcoming from Bilbo, the beardling’s mouth twisted into a petulant scowl.

“A delivery for Bilbo Baggins,” he said, shoving the helm at Bilbo insistently. “Are you Bilbo Baggins?”

“Yes, but I fail to see…”

“Then this is for you, Mister Baggins, isn’t it?” the beardling said, rather pointedly this time. Bilbo took the package.

He watched the little dwarrow trot down the hall and disappear somewhere into the gloom. Bilbo wondered if the gift was, perhaps, from one of the members of the Company. Or, dare he hope, from a certain dwarf king?

The thing was, Bilbo had seen neither hide nor hair of that particular dwarf since that dinner with the dwarrows of the other clans. When Thorin had given Bilbo rooms in the royal wing, Bilbo had rather thought it had meant Thorin would be popping around occasionally for a drink or two.

Well, Thorin was busy. It wasn’t an easy task being the ruler of a kingdom rich in coin, but not in resources or people - not yet, at least. And these days it seemed like Thorin was far too busy to afford attention even to his dear friends, the dwarrows of the Company, much less time to spare for an unimportant hobbit like himself.

So Bilbo shut the door behind him, and went to find Balin.

The king’s advisor was always up before the crack of dawn, as was his custom, and so Bilbo’s knock on his door was answered promptly. He looked at the helm in Bilbo’s hand, and his face changed.

“I think you’d best come in, Bilbo,” he said kindly, and relieved Bilbo of the helmet. He set it down on an adjacent table and gestured for Bilbo to sit.

“Did you receive this gift this morning?” Balin asked, sitting down and offering a chair to Bilbo. Bilbo nodded. “It was delivered by a little beardling,” he answered. “Do you have any idea as to its origins? I have to admit, I’m completely stumped as to why anyone would wish to gift me with such a… such a… such an _extravagant_ present. Is it anyone’s birthday today, perhaps? Or,” he continued slowly, his brow furrowing, “a practical joke? I must say, I thought most dwarrows rather above immature tricks like this…”

“It’s no prank, laddie,” Balin said, shaking his head, “neither is it a birthday present. It’s a courting gift. These designs on the helm are of the Ironfists, an eminent clan from the Red Mountains, and this sigil,” here he lifted the headpiece and indicated a small insignia imprinted in the centre of the helmet’s visor, “’tis the sigil of the dwarven prince Zdenek.”

“A _courting_ gift?” Bilbo exclaimed, his mouth falling open in disbelief. “But I hardly even know the dwarf! Why, all I remember of him is that he sat across from me during Thorin’s celebratory dinner, and that he had a rather excessively-flamboyant coat. I spoke barely two words to him the entire evening!”

Balin looked at him. It was a pitying gaze. “One thing you must understand, Bilbo,” he said kindly, “is that for Thorin to name you _Khuzdbâha_ \- it was no small feat. Few outside our people are granted this title, and Thorin is a king especially known for his reticence and slowness to trust. As the new leader of Erebor, a kingdom rich in gold, Thorin is vulnerable, and there are many who would seek to take advantage of the trust he gives so rarely.”

“So what you mean by that…” Bilbo said slowly. “I am seen as a useful shortcut to influencing the throne of Erebor? But that’s ridiculous!” He found he suddenly had to sit down, and cover his face with his hands to hide his confusion. “I am hardly as dear a friend to Thorin as that,” he said, his voice forlorn. “There are others - you, Dwalin, the princes… even Óin and Glóin, as relatives to Thorin, would surely be seen as more suitable candidates through whom Thorin can be wooed.”

A hand rested gently on his back, and Bilbo looked up at Balin, whose eyes were as warm and understanding as ever. “I think you are underestimating the value Thorin places in you, Bilbo,” he murmured. “He values your friendship greatly. No less than before your giving of the Arkenstone to Thranduil and Bard.”

Privately Bilbo thought his words to be untrue. If his friendship were treasured by Thorin to such an extent, surely they would have seen more of each other in the past month, instead of the endless meetings and council sessions which had diverted Thorin’s attention. Surely the celebratory dinner would not have been the first time Thorin had gazed upon him with such warmth in his eyes (as it had been). Surely Thorin would have deigned to speak more than the word or two spoken in passing greeting to him over the past few months.

“Talk to him, laddie,” Balin advised. “Let him know of your troubles. For this will not be the last courting gift you receive unsolicited, and Thorin has the power to protect you from further propositions.”

Bilbo nodded, but in his heart he resolved to keep the matter to himself. Perhaps there would not be so many presents as all that. Surely Balin was exaggerating, the old pessimist that he was. And Bilbo felt sufficiently comfortable in the fact that, as a hobbit, his natural physical repugnance and oddities to the dwarrows who knew him not would outweigh any political capital gained with Thorin through his friendship. There would be no more gifts, he was sure.

*

There were more gifts. In copious amounts, and all in bad taste. It was absurdly clear, now that he knew what to look for, that none of these dwarrows sought to court him due to any interest in his personality, or who he was. Bilbo was gifted with necklaces dripping with precious stones that would have hung around his neck like millstones, bracers with intricate designs of which he understood little, and even a multitude of throwing daggers upon which he had almost cut himself. These were presents of an utterly unhobbitly nature, and as such he felt no qualms at all about very firmly telling the messengers who brought the gifts that they could take the presents and shove it right up the senders’ -

Unfortunately, the deluge of gifts did not slow, and in fact, seemed to grow larger by the day. Soon Bilbo began to recognise some of the repeat offenders by name. Prince Zdenek of the Orocarni was one, the dwarf who had sent the initial gift, and who was fond of gifting war implements Bilbo had absolutely no interest in using. Lady Ardris of the Iron Hills was another dwarrow who refused to take no for an answer, and sent increasingly-extravagant jewelleries on a daily basis. And then there was Lord Wili, a distant relative of Dain Ironfoot, who insisted on sending self-composed poems extolling the virtues of his dwarven axe and singing rhapsodies to Bilbo’s ‘jewel-laden caverns’.

At least the last poem had given Bilbo a bit of a laugh. Wili was, if anything, creative about the words he could get to rhyme with ‘mine-shaft’, and as a writer, Bilbo could admit to being entertained by bawdy word-play.

But enough was enough! It had gotten so bad that Bilbo had briefly considered raising the issue to Thorin because, as Balin had so kindly pointed out, if anyone could put a stop to it, Thorin could. When Bilbo and Ori had been discussing the restoration of the library one Tuesday afternoon, they had turned the corner and walked straight into Thorin and his retinue. Bilbo had opened his mouth to speak (because just that afternoon he had received a distinctly phallic-shaped gold fountain, and surely there was no going lower after that).

Then Thorin had noticed them and said, rather distractedly, “Ah - Ori and Master Baggins, good afternoon. Kolmar, if you have the estimates for the weaving guild, you can put those on my desk by tomorrow. And Tryggwi, gather the numbers for the mining expedition, you know how Bofur goes on if they’re not delivered on time - “

And Bilbo had promptly closed his mouth, his cheeks red, and scurried past the group of dwarrows.

Eventually, things came to the point that even _Dwalin_ noticed, and came to speak to Bilbo about it.

“Laddie, ye’ve got to get Thorin to do something about this,” was the first thing he said. Bilbo glared at him.

“I’m not going to involve Thorin in this,” he declared. “I can handle it myself. It’s only a couple of dwarrows, after all.”

“What’re ye going to do?” asked Dwalin, and he sounded genuinely curious.

Bilbo huffed. “I’m going to… I’m going to give them a stern talking-to, that’s what I’ll do!” he exclaimed. “No hobbit should be disrespected like this. Why, if you could only see the awful THINGS people are giving me… oh, right, you tripped over one on your way in. That one’s from Wili. He’s fond of gifts with puerile, penile innuendoes. Perhaps it’s his name. Some sort of unconscious desire to prove himself worthy of such an epithet… but the point is, it’s not right, treating a good gentlemanly hobbit like this. I’m going to talk to them and… and… and tell them off!”

Dwalin nodded seriously. “Aye,” he said, “and when that fails, you’ll talk to Thorin?”

“I am _not_ talking to Thorin Bloody Oakenshield!” fumed Bilbo.

“Why’re ye so opposed to asking Thorin to help ye out?” Dwalin asked. “Ye know he could solve this in a pinch. Be more than happy to, in my opinion.”

“Well, you have your opinion, and I have mine,” Bilbo sniffed. He abruptly wilted, and placed his hand on a nearby chair to steady himself. “And my opinion’s that I’ll not be bothering Thorin about this matter. Not when he’s so busy with the upcoming diplomatic expedition from the elves, and the three-month anniversary dinner for Erebor’s reclamation, and the million other things kings are responsible for. I’m not going to bother him about my problems, not when he has so much to do.”

“Laddie,” Dwalin rumbled, “ye know Thorin would drop everything at the drop of a dwarven war helm to help ye out. Especially if it concerns dwarrows courting ye against your will.”

“That’s not true,” said Bilbo, weakly. “If that were true, then why haven’t I seen - I thought, after the gold-sickness - no. He’s busy, Dwalin. I mustn’t bother him about these unimportant things.”

“He’s a fool,” said Dwalin sternly, disapprovingly.

“I refuse to talk about this anymore,” Bilbo said stubbornly, and stumped off to find elevenses. Honestly! Dwarrows! An empty-headed, dragon-licking, gravel-skinned bunch, the lot of them!

*

In the end Bilbo had no choice in the matter. He supposed it was a cruel twist of fate in recompense for the names he had called Dwalin in his head. Although he had felt rather sorry afterwards, and baked Dwalin a fresh batch of cookies as an apology.

The fact was, Bilbo had been happily going around his normal business, when he realised that his button had come off and fallen to the ground. Being fond of the golden buttons Dori had painstakingly sewn back onto his burgundy waistcoat, he had bent to retrieve the button, and in so doing, became privy to a conversation he would rather have avoided.

It seemed that dwarrows were, as with most other bigger races, not immune from the remarkable ability of hobbits to blend into the furniture. As Bilbo straightened up, he realised that firstly, he had stepped into a small, dark side alley sheltered from the main passageway. And secondly, that Prince Zdenek, of the Ironfist clan, had stopped just outside the entrance to the alley, and was in the middle of a very deep conversation with another dwarf.

“And he won’t accept any of your gifts? Disgraceful!” said the second dwarf, in a loud and rather scandalised voice.

“Yes, well, what can one do?” Zdenek said, with a magnanimous sigh. “It is difficult for a halfling to recognise the great honour heaped upon him when a dwarf of my eminence deigns to court him. Then again, it must be the prolonged exposure to those dwarrows of the house of Durin. A magnificent bloodline, that’s to be sure, but…” he leaned his head closer to the other dwarf’s, and, with a smug smile, made a circling motion with his finger round his head. “Recently a little touched in the head, no? Such a pity that so exalted a line should fall prey to the vagaries of illness.”

“They’ve always been a queer lot, the Longbeards,” said the other voice. Bilbo thought it rather a nasty voice, grasping and eager to please. “When they sought our help, I think you were right to turn them away. Your father was far too weak to do so. After all, what could they have offered us? They did not bring much of the _mithril_ from Erebor with them, and even so, they are a jealous people. They would have kept the best of the lot, and saved us their meagre leftovers. Best that you sent them away before they could drag the rest of us down with them.”

 _Best that they left before they found themselves in a nest of vipers like yours!_ Bilbo snarled in his head. So Zdenek had been one of those responsible for refusing aid to the Ereborean refugees when they had been rendered homeless by Smaug. He was about to step out of the alley and challenge them to take their words back, when, suddenly, he felt a warm hand at his back.

Thorin stood behind him, accompanied by Dwalin and another guard, and dressed in his usual finery. His eyes were cold with fury, and his hand shook. Bilbo could feel the heat from his hand radiating through even the thick fabrics of his clothes, and he found that he could not move.

The conversation continued, Zdenek and his companion clearly unaware of the unseen listeners.

“But surely the gifts you gave the halfling were not crafted of your own hand?” asked the other unknown dwarf. “I do not recall seeing you in the forges of Erebor. Nor did you bring any of your crafts with you from Halrubínu.”

Zdenek scoffed, his tone derisive. “As if I would grace the palm of a queer-looking creature as that with the honoured works of my hands! What you speak of is errant foolishness, Stráhek. No, the halfling likely knows little of our most sacred customs, and will be happy enough with works bartered from other smiths.”

“Your marriage will bring great sadness to many of the dams and dwarrows who court you, my prince. And yet there are many also who strive to win the hand of the halfling. The gifts - ”

Zdenek waved his hand dismissively, and sneered down at Stráhek. “’Tis impossible for any dwarf to best Zdenek Keen-eye, prince of the Ironhills, slayer of the Orocarni. Once the halfling recognises my virtues he will all but grovel at my feet to earn my hand in marriage.” He sighed, and turned his attention to one of the many gemstone-encrusted rings that encircled his thick, stubby fingers. “The only thing I regret is that I should have to stoop to such heights to elevate the repute of our great house. To marry a _halfling?_ And such odd, queer looking creatures they are too.”

Well, that was a little bit hurtful. Bilbo blinked, and unconsciously his hand clutched at his chest.   

But the dwarf was not done with his tirade. “Those tales of the halfling’s bravery, and of how they earned him his place beside Thorin Oakenshield - I believe them not,” he scoffed. “It is plain he bought his way to eminence, not with gold, for he has none, but by the spreading of his loins. Why else would such an unworthy, unimportant, effably _witless_ \- “

Bilbo was bowled over. The hand burning a hole through his back abruptly disappeared, and Thorin swept past him in a flash of opulent purple robes. Zdenek was suddenly and quickly elevated above the ground, with Thorin holding his collar in a very firm, and unyielding, grasp. Stráhek let out a shriek and attempted to scuttle off, but was soon waylaid by Dwalin’s war-axes placed threateningly in his way.

“Lord Zdenek,” he said, and his eyes were as chips of ice. “I urge you to consider your next words very, very carefully. You speak of a hero of Erebor, one who carries the favour of the heirs of Durin, dwarrows who happen to be your _liege.”_

Zdenek spluttered. His face was turning a curious mottled colour, and his mouth moved shapelessly as if he were trying to form words. Heedless of his discomfort, Thorin yanked the dwarf closer, till they were nose to nose, and stared into his eyes.

“And what did you mean,” he said very softly, “when you said you were _courting_ him?”

Bilbo stumbled to his feet and placed a hand on Thorin’s arm. Thorin started, abruptly, looking at Bilbo as if he had forgotten the hobbit was there, then almost unconsciously, his hand relaxed and Zdenek fell to the floor with an unceremonious thump. He coughed violently, clutching at his throat and staring with wide, fear-filled eyes at Thorin.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty!” he cried, scrambling hastily backwards on his bum as Thorin prowled towards him. “I - I knew not of which I spoke - I meant no disrespect to the halfling - “

“Dwalin,” Thorin said. There was a curious inflection in his voice that made Bilbo turn towards him, but Thorin was not looking at him. “Kindly return Lord Zdenek to his quarters. And please inform King Zdenka that the terms of our trade agreement may need to be renegotiated, and that I will meet him tomorrow in the council chamber to discuss our new terms.”

“But - you can’t do that!” screeched Zdenek. His gaudy robes had fallen off his shoulder in the scuffle. As a result he looked rather smaller, and strangely diminished, in Bilbo’s eyes, crouching ignobly at Thorin’s feet like a creeping loathsome worm. “The terms have already been negotiated! You cannot change your terms because - because of a _halfling!”_ he spat.

“Your vitriol has no place in these halls, Master Dwarf,” Thorin said coldly. “I believe your father is the king, not you. I deal with dwarrows of calibre and nobility, Zdenek, qualities I am afraid you sorely lack, and I have not the time for spoiled princelings who seek to slander and defame one of my - one of this kingdom’s dearest friends. Dwalin?” he turned to the guard.

“With pleasure,” Dwalin growled. He gripped Zdenek’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet bodily and dragging him down the hall, along with a screeching and wailing Stráhek.

Only then did Thorin turn to Bilbo.

“You are unhurt?” he said, gently. Bilbo blinked, then looked down at himself in puzzlement.

“He did not touch me,” Bilbo answered, confused. Thorin let out a gravelly chuckle, tinged with surprise, as if the sudden moment of levity had startled even him.

“No, Master Baggins - I meant, did his words do you harm?”

“Oh! Well,” Bilbo paused and considered the question. The twinge that had appeared in his chest at Zdenek’s words had quite passed, soothed in the face of Thorin’s obvious ire on his behalf. He shook his head. “No, I’m quite alright. It would take rather more than Master Zdenek’s unkind words to irk me.”

“Good,” Thorin said quietly. “I am glad of that.”

There was a slow, sure warmth in Thorin’s eyes as he gazed upon Bilbo, a kind of curious tenderness which did funny things to Bilbo’s insides. It inspired some strange deep ache in Bilbo’s chest, for he had not seen that expression on Thorin’s face for quite some time, not since - not since -

It was quite a discomfiting feeling, so he cleared his throat and tried for a reassuring smile. “I assure you I’m quite alright. You don’t need to fuss over me so, Thor - Your Majesty.” He made the correction rather hastily, having always referred to Thorin by name in his head, but he suddenly thought the epithet more appropriate.

Immediately Bilbo regretted the change, for it was as if a wall had suddenly descended over Thorin’s eyes. Thorin stepped back, inclining his head formally, and Bilbo found himself fiercely missing the heat of his body.

There was a moment of awkward silence, as Thorin tried to recompose himself, and Bilbo called himself some rather rude names in his head.

“You did not tell me there were dwarrows courting you,” Thorin said at last. Bilbo started.

“Oh! Well - yes, I suppose I didn’t. To be honest, I thought I could manage the situation on my own, but just declining the gifts didn’t work. I don’t know why these confounded dwarrows insist on being so bloody stubborn - a no is a no, and repeatedly heaping me with gifts won’t change my answer! And to learn that dwarrows were courting me to earn favour with the throne of Erebor - why, it made me furious, it did, thinking that there were dwarrows out there trying to use you in such an underhanded way - well, Dwalin said - “ Bilbo realised he was wringing his hands in nervousness, and forced himself to tuck them back into the pockets of his waistcoat.

Thorin’s brows descended like a black cloud down upon his blue eyes. _“Dwalin_ knew?” he growled, almost incredulously. “He did not tell me. Mahal, when I get my hands on that tree-humping, dung-eating - “

“Oh, no, no,” Bilbo was quick to reassure him, “it wasn’t Dwalin’s fault. I expressly forbade him from telling you.”

Thorin stopped moving, and just looked at him. It was a hurt expression, and Bilbo did not like the way it looked on Thorin’s face. He rushed to explain.

“I didn’t want to bother you - ” He stumbled over his words. “You were so busy and everything - with the elvish expedition, and the upcoming celebration, and what seemed like a thousand different things - you know, I barely even see you anymore! Well, that’s not your fault, I suppose. You’re off doing kinging things. I understand. I didn’t want to bother you with my tiny problem. I thought I’d be able to resolve it on my own, you see. Except, well, I couldn’t.” Bilbo thought it rather for the best that he left out of the explanation the awful feeling which had swept over him when Thorin had so casually brushed past he and Ori in the halls. After all, on later reflection, he had decided that the feeling was likely guilt at even having thought of bothering Thorin at this inconvenient time, and had dismissed the thought accordingly.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said softly, “I will always have time for you. I am truly sorry that I gave you cause to doubt this.” He looked rather forlorn and tragically regal at the same time, with his great shoulders drooping and his mouth twisted angrily.

Bilbo forced a smile, and patted his shoulder where he could reach. “It’s not your fault, Thorin,” he said, deciding it would be best to address Thorin as such before it resulted in more incidents of the sulking nature. “Now cheer up! This matter’s come to an end now, and we’ll not see any more of these rascally suitors, I hope. I do appreciate your help, Thorin,” he said earnestly, slipping his hand back into Thorin’s, and trying to ignore how right the sensation felt. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the incidents before.”

Thorin was looking down at their hands clasped together. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Bilbo’s, and this time they were hard and unyielding as rock.

“No,” he promised, “they will certainly not bother you again.”

*

“No,” Bilbo said firmly. “One dwarf is quite enough.”

Thorin glared at him from under stormy brows. “Master Baggins,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full height, and around Bilbo, the guards cowered back instinctively. Thorin made an impressive figure when angered and fully roused. “You do not know these dwarrows like I do. For them to have pressed their suit on you so insistently, and completely unsolicited - they are clearly careless of your feelings, and might potentially do you harm. Although we cannot detain them - “ _(though we certainly_ tried, his tone implied) “we can try our best to stave off any attack they might make on your person.”

“With four dwarf guards I’ll certainly stave off _most_ dwarrows!” spluttered Bilbo, refusing to be cowed. He drew himself to his full height also - though admittedly far less intimidating - and crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare straight into Thorin’s eyes. “I most certainly _refuse_ to be saddled with four guards. Firstly, I hardly believe any dwarf, even the ones who have shown me such discourtesy, would resort to physical force to convince me to accept their suit. No, I am far from important enough to warrant such measures.” He held up a hand to silence Thorin as the king tried to interrupt, and Thorin shut his mouth with a mutinous expression. “Second, there are far better things for the guards to be doing - we’re shorthanded when it comes to repairs and restorations as it is already! And lastly,” he added pointedly, “I can take care of myself, Thorin. You of all people should know that.”

Thorin ran his hand through his hair in frustration, having evidently given up on intimidating Bilbo into submission. “I know that!” he snarled. His voice abruptly became softer, quieter, and he stopped pacing around the room, to look at Bilbo. “And well do I know that, Master Burglar. But I can assure you that, while giving you four guards may seem a tad excessive to you, it would certainly make me -” he caught himself, coughed - “make _us_ feel better. The dwarrows of the Company, I meant. It would make _us_ feel better, to know that you were adequately protected against any threats.”

“ _One_ guard, Thorin,” Bilbo said sternly. “You may pick the guard, if you like. But know that if you try to have me subtly followed by more guards I will _not_ have it, and I will tell Dís that you expressly and knowingly disobeyed my request.”

“Dís would take _my_ side,” Thorin muttered petulantly, but it was a moot point - both of them knew Dís would likely side with Bilbo in any argument, largely because she felt he was the only one in Erebor with any semblance of good sense.

“Fine,” Thorin said at last. “One guard it is then.” He leveled Bilbo with a narrow glare that said he was far from satisfied with the conclusion of the argument. Bilbo ignored it. The exhilaration and adrenaline thrumming through his veins from his discourse with Thorin were, at the same time, both strange and painfully familiar. He had had many such arguments with Thorin on their journey, of course, petty tiffs over pipeweed and dinner and who was to have first watch, but these interactions had been distinctly lacking since Thorin had assumed the mantle of King Under The Mountain. It had not occurred to Bilbo until now how much he had severely missed these little seemingly-insignificant moments.

Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly Bilbo felt an ache in chest. _Where did we go wrong_ , he wanted to ask. _When I stole the Arkenstone from you? When you held me over the ramparts and threatened my life? When I looked in your eyes and realised I didn’t recognise the dwarf I saw standing in front of me?_

The gentle light in Thorin’s eyes from the dying embers of the fire flickered and danced, and for a moment Bilbo’s eyes went to Thorin’s lips - he thought, no, he so dearly _wanted_ -

“Your Majesty,” coughed one of the guards, and Bilbo had never wanted to kill someone so dearly in his life.

Thorin withdrew abruptly and turned away. “Yes?” he said, sounding completely unaffected, and Bilbo quietly lifted a hand to his chest to still the thundering of his heart.

“Lady Dís is here,” said the offending guard. Bilbo had some rather uncharitable thoughts about, say, picking up the poker from the dying fire, and perhaps, thrusting it straight through the blasted dwarf’s heart. That would teach him to interrupt when Bilbo and Thorin were -

Were what? Having a moment?

Bilbo suddenly realised he was being rather silly. He and Thorin did not have _moments,_ goodness no. Thorin was a lovely heroic king with a regal birthright stretching all the way back to the first dwarf sent by Mahal, and a most attractive mien, and Bilbo was…

Well, he was a foolish old hobbit, that was all, and foolish old hobbits did not have _moments_ with tragically beautiful kings.

Besides, the look in Thorin’s eyes had likely been exasperation at his stubbornness. Oh dear, Bilbo fretted, he did so hope he hadn’t offended Thorin. He never knew what to say to Thorin nowadays, and sometimes he _did_ let his temper get the better of him, forgetting that things were not as they once were.

While he had known of Thorin’s blue blood and his exalted status while on the journey, it had never really sunk in, and he had been as insolent as he wished with Thorin, with few consequences. Now the reality of Thorin’s birth was far clearer, with that awful crown and his awful kingly robes and how his attention was split between Bilbo and what seemed like every Yavanna-damned dwarf in Erebor!

But Bilbo was being selfish, he realised. He could not expect to have as much of Thorin’s attention as before. Thorin had a responsibility to his people - he had always had - and it was simply the responsibility of a king to treat all his subjects equally. Bilbo ignored the sharp pain in his heart at the thought. Yes, he would simply have to accept the fact that he was no longer as important to Thorin as he had been before.

Perhaps it was all for the best, he told himself, and tried to surreptitiously wipe at the edges of his eyes. His betrayal had rather shaken Thorin, had shaken him deeply, made him doubt who he could and couldn’t trust. It was one of the few things Bilbo had regretted about the whole affair - causing Thorin pain, that was. He remembered Thorin’s expression as he had held him off the ramparts all too clearly.

Perhaps he should really try to stop calling Thorin by his name and start addressing him by his proper epithet. He did not know why it irked Thorin so - perhaps some strange fancy of his - but it was the proper thing to do, after all. Yes, he would have to stop thinking of Thorin by his name in his head as well. It was only proper to start calling Thorin the King Under the Mountain. Only it was such an awfully long name…

Oh, bother! Bilbo had to wipe at his eyes again. Thorin’s - _the king’s_ \- rooms really were uncommonly dusty. He should have a word with the chambermaids, to tell them to dust more often - or rather, he should tell Balin to tell the chambermaids. It was not proper for one of his status to comment on the state of the royal rooms, not proper at all…

Oh, Bilbo thought furiously, how he absolutely _despised_ that word!

*

Bilbo was having his breakfast in his rooms when there was a knock at the door. He opened the door to find a stranger on his doorstep.

“Hello!” said the stranger. He was a very funny-looking dwarf indeed. He had on the uniform of the palace guard, but he wore a large blue scarf that covered his neck and most of his chin. His hair was bright yellow, like flax fibre, and hung in an elegant halo around his head. His beard was one of the simplest Bilbo had ever seen - barring the king’s, of course - with the hairs of his beard gathered in a loose knot with an iron clasp and peeking out the bottom of his scarf. He had a fair face, for a dwarf, with ruddy cheeks, a clever mouth, and warm brown eyes.

He smiled at Bilbo. It was a merry smile, and Bilbo found himself inexplicably smiling in return.

A beat of silence passed, and Bilbo was suddenly aware that he was wearing only his dressing gown, having been unprepared for company. He hastily pulled close the edges of the gown, feeling an uncanny sense of déjà vu, and cleared his throat.

“And you are…?” he asked politely, when it seemed there would be no name forthcoming.

Immediately the dwarf swept down into a merry bow, revealing a large hefty mattock strapped to his back. He stood upright again with much jingling of his armour and scraping of his leather garb.

“Oddvar, son of Virdar, at your service!” he said smartly. “I am to be your new guard, Lord Baggins.”

“Goodness!” Bilbo said uncomfortably. “Lord Baggins? Why, I am not so esteemed as that. You must call me Bilbo, since it appears we will soon be spending much time together. I am afraid I am not dressed for company, but if you don’t mind my rudeness, you might want to come inside for a cup of tea?”

“Well, strictly speaking, Master Bilbo,” Oddvar said, a very stern expression on his face, “us guards aren’t allowed into the royal quarters. We’re supposed to stay outside and watch for intruders and ruffians and the like, you see. But,” he said, and his face suddenly split into another of those likeable grins as he leaned forward with a conspiratorial air, “I certainly won’t say no to a strong cup of tea. Only if it is to stay strictly between us, Master Baggins. I’m sure you won’t go telling on me now, would you?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. Then he burst out laughing.

“You insolent dwarf,” he said, unable to hide his smile, “I hardly know you, and yet you presume to put on airs? Well, I suppose you simply _must_ come in now.” He opened the door a little wider and Oddvar strode in, ducking to avoid the ceiling, as he was rather a tall dwarf.

He sat down at the low table where Bilbo had been taking his meal. Bilbo prepared another plate heaped high with scones and slathered with fresh butter and jam from Dale.

Oddvar was an uncommonly polite dwarf, for he thanked Bilbo for the meal, and ate neatly with little mess. Bilbo squinted at him.

“Are you sure you’re a dwarf?” he said skeptically. “I have never met a dwarf who didn’t have half of his food in his beard by the time he finished his meal.”

“I am indeed an uncommonly unusual dwarf,” said Oddvar solemnly, as he carried his plate to the kitchen and washed it up. Bilbo poured them both a cup of tea, and they sat at the table again.

“You are from Ered Luin?” asked Bilbo, watching Oddvar over the rim of his cup, and observing the way he fiddled absently at the clasp at the end of his beard as he drank his tea.

“I was one of the refugees from Erebor who settled in Ered Luin, yes,” Oddvar replied. “I would have joined the Company on their journey, for I was eager to reclaim our home, but for my mother. She was sick with consumption when the king sought my help, and I could not in good conscience leave her sick and helpless while I went gallivanting halfway across Middle Earth.”

“How awful,” Bilbo said, feeling the statement rather inadequate. “How is your mother now? Did she travel here with you?”

“She passed two months ago,” Oddvar murmured quietly.

“Ah.”

They sat together in quiet silence for a few moments, then Oddvar made a visible effort to perk himself up.

“Well, Master Bilbo,” he said, with a smile, “what will your schedule be like today? I imagine an important personage like yourself would have many responsibilities in and around the mountain?”

Bilbo shook his head, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and wrapped his hands tightly around the cup I his hands. “I don’t have many responsibilities in Erebor. Just a few visits to friends today, I’m afraid. I’m not a very important person, you see.” Then, to stave off the platitudes which often followed such statements when he made them to his friends, he hurriedly added, “I suppose you know the reason why you’ve been employed as my guard?”

Oddvar nodded vigorously. “Overeager dwarrows hoping to cement their position and gather favour with our esteemed king through gaining your hand,” he growled. “You mustn’t fear, Master Bilbo. I will take good care to protect you from any unwanted solicitations.”

Bilbo waved his hands around in the air eloquently. “Nonsense!” he said, in a dismissive tone. “I’m quite sure it will amount to nothing, and that I’ll have wasted a large part of your time. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that any dwarrows would be driven to take action against me simply because I spurned their suit.”

“I think you quite underestimate your own attractiveness, Master Bilbo,” replied Oddvar, cocking his head and smiling. “We of Ered Luin have heard the tales of the role you played in the reclamation of Erebor, and many were present when King Thorin named you _Khuzdbâha._ ‘Tis a great honour none have been given since the time of Durin the Third, for we dwarrows are a fiercely private race who hold our secrets close within our kin and our peoples, and your title is surely an indication of the high esteem you are held in by our king.”

Bilbo felt rather pleased by the praise, although he rather thought Oddvar’s estimation of his importance in Thorin’s eyes rather exaggerated.

“Be that as it may,” he said primly, “most of my time is now spent in idleness.”

He averted his eyes and stared into the fire. “I wish I had my garden again. When first the dwarrows came to Bag End it was the height of spring, and the snapdragons were but freshly-bloomed. I wonder how my gardenias are doing,” he murmured, now mostly to himself. “Quite a fuss my mother made, when my father planted those fickle plants. Difficult to care for, and as capricious as the worst hobbit lass, and yet when they bloomed the fall my parents passed they were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” His memories of that autumn were clear as crystal - the snowy blossoms of the gardenias blooming hesitantly from the thick green shrubs at the edge of his father’s plot, the cold crisp air of the nights, the tears he had shed sitting on the bench in front of Bag End and remembering the sound of Belladonna’s laughter.

He hadn’t thought about his parents for a while. Hadn’t thought about his garden and his father’s beautiful gardenias, hadn’t thought about his lovely empty smial all dusty and quiet without his care, hadn’t thought about his soft armchair and his plush carpets and the old musty map of Rivendell hanging in his father’s study.

Perhaps he ought to start a garden. Certainly Erebor needed more greenery and growing things. He was going to go mad one of these days, surrounded with nothing but cold, silent rock and the artificial bright light of the crystal lamps. He needed the sun, the birdsong, the feeling of soil sifting under his bare feet; for he was a hobbit, and hobbits were not made to spend their lives in mountains and under stone.

He would ask Thorin - no, no, he would ask Balin. He would not trouble the king with this. He already felt somewhat of a burden, what with the whole courting debacle, and was now rather furious at himself for making a fuss out of what would surely have tided over in a few weeks if he’d just kept a level head and not blurted everything out to the king the moment he’d been questioned on the matter -

“You have worked with plants?” Oddvar said, and Bilbo’s head snapped around. He had completely forgotten about the other dwarf’s existence, and the question startled him.

It took him a few seconds to compose himself, before he could answer.

“I had a garden back - back in Bag End. In Hobbiton,” Bilbo answered, politely.

Oddvar leaned forward with a quick movement, propping himself on his knees and with a sparkle in his brown eyes which, now that Bilbo thought about it, contained a hint of a very familiar mischief. “You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “Master Bilbo, I must admit, I accepted this post partly out of curiosity, for halflings are such strange creatures - never before have I met a halfling, and I dearly wish to know more about you and your curious folk. Would you tell me more about yourself? That is,” he added with a grin, “if I’m not being too insolent. I wouldn’t like to offend you, after all, Master Bilbo.”

His excitement was contagious, and Bilbo found his mood unexpectedly bolstered. He smiled, glad of the distraction from his strange maudlin mood, and the unexpected interest in his species, for not many dwarrows outside the Company had expressed such attentiveness to him, and even deigned to speak to him. So it was thus that he began his lecture.

“Well, Master Oddvar, for a start, we do not like being called _halflings,_ for we are not _half_ of anything, much less men, who coined the derogatory term. It is far more polite to refer to us Shire-folk as _hobbits,_ supposedly from the old Westron word _Holbytlan…”_

*

Unexpectedly, the king sought Bilbo three days later, and invited him for a meal in his quarters.

“I feel that I have been remiss in my treatment of you,” Thorin told him, in a rather intense sort of way, having cornered him in his chambers as Bilbo prepared to set out to meet Balin for luncheon. “You are a friend of mine, and yet I have not spoken to you proper since - well, since - “

“Yes, quite,” said Bilbo hastily, as he sensed that Thorin was about to say something maudlin, involving a topic which both were quite determined to avoid. “Tomorrow? I will be there.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” agreed Thorin. “And perhaps we could make it a weekly feature?” he murmured quietly, almost shyly. Bilbo blinked in surprise at the unexpected invitation.

“Oh - well, of course,” he said, and ventured a smile at Thorin. “I would love to have dinner with you tonight, Your Majesty.”

Thorin returned his smile, but it looked brittle and strangely sad. “Good,” he said, and took an abortive step forward, as if he had wished to come closer, but had ultimately thought better of him. Bilbo hovered awkwardly at the door, unsure if Thorin had more to say to him, or if they were done.

“If that’s all - “

“Bilbo - “

They spoke at the same time, and cut off their sentences abruptly. Bilbo stared at Thorin, feeling sweat bead on his brow. Thorin made a strange gesture with his hand, somewhere between a gesture forward and an exasperated wave of his hands, and Bilbo took it as his cue to speak.

“Balin’s expecting me,” he said, feeling his fingers tighten where they held onto the edge of the door. “I’ll just - I mean, we’ll see each other tonight, won’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we will,” Thorin said, his smile looking more like a grimace now. He stood and edged his way out past Bilbo, where Oddvar stood, looking curiously at the both of them. “Good morning, Master Baggins. I look forward to seeing you tonight.”

When he had shut the door behind Thorin, he suddenly turned to Oddvar, who had followed him back into his rooms.

“When I’ve finished luncheon with Balin,” he said, realising his tone was unusually brusque, and making an effort to soften its edge, “won’t you show me round Erebor? I haven’t actually seen most of it, you know. I’d like to see some of the rooms which have been restored.”

Oddvar’s raised eyebrows registered his surprise, although he nodded. “But, Master Bilbo…” he ventured. “There are far more qualified dwarrows to be your guide. Lord Balin, perhaps, or one of the dwarrows from the Company. Or King Thorin himself. For him to visit you personally and invite you to dinner…”

Bilbo frowned. “I know not why I received such an invite,” he admitted, “although I must say it is both welcome, and extremely confusing! Why, I haven’t received such overtures of friendship from the king since we had - since we had our argument.”

“You mean, during his gold sickness, when he found out you gave the Arkenstone to King Bard?” asked Oddvar.

Bilbo looked sharply at him. “How did you know that?” he said, leveling him with a suspicious gaze. Surely there were few who knew of the events on the battlements that day. Where could Oddvar, a simple guard from Ered Luin, have heard about the incident?

“Oh - er, I’ve heard things here and there,” Oddvar said quickly, although he wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the startled flash in his eyes. Bilbo side-eyed him dubiously, but he met Bilbo’s gaze with an all-too-innocent smile.

“Hmm,” Bilbo said at last. He had too little time to ponder on this mystery, for Balin awaited him in his chambers, but he would certainly think on this further. What an interesting dwarf Oddvar, son of Vidar, was turning out to be…

*

Dinner with Thorin was a quiet and peaceful affair. Bombur, now the head chef of Erebor, served them dishes of dwarf-make but with hobbit-y touches, such as a delicious seed cake baked from Bilbo’s own recipe, and a lovely vegetable stew which Thorin made a valiant effort to get through. While their conversation had started out stilted and awkward, Bilbo was delighted that, over the course of the meal, their words flowed more easily, and a semblance of their past relationship began to return.

After the meal they retired to the armchairs by the fire. Bilbo began to stuff the barrel of his pipe and peeked at Thorin, sitting opposite him, from under his lashes. Thorin was puffing quietly at his pipe, his eyes closed, and humming in contentment.

“I hear you’ve spoken to Balin about setting up a garden in Erebor,” Thorin said, suddenly. Bilbo nodded.

“Yes, he said I could set it up on the eastern side of the mountain. There’s a little alcove there which isn’t being put to use, so he gave it to me. You… You don’t have any objections, do you?” Bilbo asked hesitantly.

Thorin shook his head and exhaled, the smoke pouring from his lips in a rather decadent fashion. Bilbo felt himself starting to sweat under his waistcoat. The fire was burning low, the flickering flames casting shadows along Thorin’s ruddy skin.

“It will be difficult to set up a garden in a mountain,” he said at length, “though it is not without precedent.”

“Yes, Balin told me,” Bilbo replied eagerly. He had been so enthused by the notion of his very own garden that he had practically bombarded Balin and Ori with questions as to how it might be arranged. “There was a garden in Moria, supplied with light by strategically placed mirrors and crystals, and rather elaborate, by all accounts. I thought I might take inspiration from there as to the finer logistics of the matter.”

Thorin nodded, his gaze fixed intently on the fire. “The gardens of Tharâkh Bazân, the jewel of Khazad-dûm,” he said, his voice quiet and far away. The Khuzdul words sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine, said as they were in the deep guttural rumble of Thorin’s voice. “Though I know little of plants and trees, even I have heard of these gardens. ’Tis named Durin’s Garden in Westron, for Durin in his first incarnation built it deep within the passages of Durin’s Way. Although dwarrows may happily live their whole lives under the depths of a mountains, even the hardiest of us sometimes long for the touch of the sun on our faces, and the sight of the green things that grow on this earth. Thus Durin constructed this most magnificent of gardens, with help from the elves of Eregion - or Hollin, as it was then known.’

‘He filled it with the rarest and most exotic of trees and blossoms, and throughout all corners of the garden he installed great pools with water clear and cold, taken from the springs that feed naturally into the base of Zirakzigil. Over the years, the walls were etched with tales of the dwarven heroes who had made their mark in the battles of the Second and Third Ages against the Orcs of Gundabad and Angmar. In the centre of the garden was there placed the statue of my ancestor, the last king of Moria - Náin the First, who fell by the hand of the Balrog that slaughtered his father. Before we lost our kingdom, it was many a lore-master and academic who visited Khazad-dûm to look upon the many beautiful and rare plants that were so arranged in Tharâkh Bazân. It was the envy of many races, and one of the prides of our people - that, even deep underground, the masterful craftsmanship of the dwarrows could bring forth green things to grow, and that they could survive under our untutored hands.”

By this time, his eyes were half-closed, the tone of his voice dreamy and reverent. It was as if in his mind’s eye he saw the great halls of Moria once more before him, those soaring ceilings and the weathered carvings on the walls of his ancestral home, which he knew and loved purely from the stories of his scholars alone. As Thorin spoke, Bilbo had a sudden vision of this named underground garden.

Although he had never looked upon it in his life, and never would, he could picture its magnificence now, in his mind, and more. He could imagine the beautiful plants and flowers which had once blessed those hallowed grounds, and which had surely fallen into disrepair and neglect. But although the image was inspiring, he rather thought for his garden -

Thorin suddenly opened his eyes as if he had heard Bilbo’s thoughts, and his eyes were very blue indeed as they gazed intensely into Bilbo’s own.

“But of course,” he murmured, “your garden will be a hobbit garden. Simple, and useful, and beautiful in its simplicity. Without dwarven splendour and flamboyance. I think that is altogether a good thing.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, yes - of course, my own endeavour would not be so ambitious. I hardly see my little hobbit garden filled with statues of dwarven kings and heroes and all. Just a simple affair, as you said - some herbs, flowers if I can find any, plants I had in Bag End, that’s all.”

“The resources of Erebor are at your disposal,” Thorin said formally. “Gold will be no object. You have a hard-won obligation to our treasure, after all.”

“Yes, I had thought of asking Bard for some transplants from Dale, and perhaps even the elves. Say what you will about them, they do have a way with plants, and I do need all the help I can get. As for the irrigation and lighting and all, Balin has been more than helpful in offering the aid of Erebor’s architects and smiths.”

“Hmm,” Thorin said. It was a pleased hum that reverberated around the room. “You must show me the garden once it is complete. While I am no connoisseur of plants or other growing things, I would be honoured if you were to show me the fruits of your labours.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, suddenly finding himself rather breathless.

“It is good that you are finding something to do,” Thorin said softly. His eyes glinted in the firelight. “I had worried that you would be bored in Erebor, for I know you find little interest in our dwarvish hobbies and ways.”

There wasn’t really anything Bilbo could say to that, so he hummed in reply and blew out a smoke ring of a diameter he was rather proud of.

“And how is Oddvar?” Thorin asked, tapping his pipe against the arm of his armchair to get rid of the ash.

The thought of that strange dwarf brought an involuntary smile to Bilbo’s face. “He really is a most curious dwarf indeed!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I asked him to guide me about Erebor this afternoon, after I took my luncheon with Balin, and he brought me to the auction halls, of all places. Although it is only half-restored, already it is bustling with merchants and vendors from the dwarf settlements. It was a pleasant change to see the halls so filled with life, when previously it was laid waste to by Smaug. He took me to the food stalls to sample dwarven cuisine. I did not know Erebor specialised in ham, although it was an enlightening experience to try ham cured in the halls of the Lonely Mountain, certainly one no other hobbit can boast! And there was a quite strange dish, I think brought from as far as Dorwinion - some sort of pickled bat organ - I shudder to think what it could have been, though Oddvar assured me it was an exotic delicacy craved by many.’

‘He really was awfully kind, you know. He gave me this - “ Bilbo took out a package from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a brooch worked with intricate designs of a purple gardenia. “He says he was quite inspired by my speech the other day on the beauty of my father’s gardenias, and was moved to craft this brooch for me last night! Although how he found the time to craft it I will never guess. Look, isn’t it beautiful?” he said excitedly, brandishing the brooch towards Thorin.

Although Thorin had been regarding him with a rather indulgent smile up until this point, as Bilbo proffered the brooch towards him, the smile fell from his face and his eyes seemed to harden.

“A fine piece of work indeed,” he said, with a blank expression on his face, and made no move to take the brooch.

Bilbo frowned at him. “You don’t want to take a closer look?” he pressed. “Why, I met Dori on the way here and showed him it, and he said it was marvellous indeed - in fact, I could hardly get him to part with it and return it to me, so taken was he with its beautiful craftsmanship! I did not know Oddvar was such a masterful craftsman. Perhaps I should commission him to make a gardening pail for my new garden. Something not too ostentatious, something simple and robust, that I could use…”

“I will make the pail for you,” Thorin said firmly. He dropped his pipe carelessly onto the floor and leaned closer.

“Master Baggins,” he said earnestly, his hands closing over Bilbo’s and hiding the brooch from view, as if he could not bear to look upon it, “I beg you to remember, _you must be careful._ Remember that there are many dwarrows who seek to win your favour and take advantage of you.”

Bilbo blinked up at him, and decided the appropriate reaction would be to give a nervous laugh. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Oddvar’s not - he’s not like the other dwarrows. He’s not trying to gain my favour in an underhanded way. Although I’ve only known him for three days now, I consider myself a good judge of character, you know. He’s - I’m sure he’s just being friendly and trying to get me to feel comfortable here, that’s all.”

 _Yavanna knows he’s done more towards that quarter than some I might name_ , he thought, although he immediately regretted his spiteful thoughts.

Thorin’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything in reply, and leaned back into his chair. Bilbo felt the mood rather spoiled by this, and he stared into the fire, the earlier ease of his words lost. There was a silence for a good long while after that, not the comfortable silences of dinner, but a heavy one, heavy with words unspoken and unwilling.

As a result, Bilbo excused himself rather earlier than he would have liked. As he rose to leave, and stood by the door to say goodnight, Thorin abruptly came round the table and laid a hand on his arm.

“I apologise, Master Baggins,” he rumbled, and Bilbo felt a little dizzy from his proximity. “I must admit, my concern for you sometimes manifests in unpleasant ways. I am sorry if I caused you any discomfort.”

He had a contrite expression on his face, and Bilbo found himself softening. He patted Thorin’s arm rather awkwardly. “Well, no harm done, I suppose,” he said, shaking his head. “Just, I think you’re completely wrong about Oddvar, you know. He’s a good dwarf. Or I assume you know so, seeing as you’re the one who employed him to guard me, after all.”

“Dís was the one who recommended him to me,” Thorin said, looking still unhappy about the whole affair. “If it were up to me…”

“Yes, yes, I know, if it were up to you I’d be surrounded by four dwarrows watching over my every movement, every hour of the day,” Bilbo replied, smiling and meaning it as a joke, but he sighed as Thorin’s expression became even more forlorn and crestfallen. Wishing to end their evening not on so dour a note, he patted Thorin’s arm again - a rather patronising gesture, he now thought - and gazed up at him.

“I’ll see you next week then, Thorin?” he said quietly, deciding that perhaps, just this once, he could ignore his inner resolution to refer to Thorin by his kingly epithet. True to form, as Thorin’s name left his lips, the eyes of the king in question became warm and liquid as he looked intently down upon Bilbo. Thorin opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then he seemed to think the better of it, and smiled at Bilbo again. It was one of his genuine smiles, Bilbo had learned. Thorin’s smiles were few and hard-won, and once - long ago - before the whole gold-sickness debacle - Bilbo had made it a secret project of his to chronicle all of Thorin’s smiles.

Not many people noticed, but Thorin had crow’s feet lining the edge of his eyes, despite his relatively younger age, but perhaps not so unexpected if one considered that he had been orphaned young and left to fend for his people with few of his family left beside him. When Thorin smiled, the lines by his eyes would crinkle, ever so slightly, so while his mouth barely moved, one could tell he was smiling, if one knew him well, just by looking at his eyes.

It kindled all sorts of funny feelings inside Bilbo, deeply-buried feelings he had no desire to explore, so he quickly dismissed them and left the rooms with a hurried goodnight to Thorin.

Oddvar was standing outside Thorin’s rooms, chatting amiably with another of the guards. They both snapped to attention and looked rather guilty as Bilbo opened the door and stepped out, but although Thorin looked rather severely at the two of them, Bilbo simply laughed and gestured to Oddvar to follow him. He had learnt by now that Oddvar had a cheerful and voluble personality which was difficult to extinguish.

As they walked slowly down the passageway towards Bilbo’s rooms, Bilbo turned his head slightly to look back, an almost unconscious motion. The last he saw of Thorin was that large, regal figure, standing outside the doors to his rooms, one hand braced on the door frame, and his eyes hooded as he stared after Bilbo’s retreating back.

He was lit from behind by the firelight, and Bilbo had to suppress an involuntary shiver. Perhaps those feelings he had spoken of before were not so deeply-buried, after all.

*

As Bilbo had told Thorin, the location where his garden would be was in a small unused room which had previously been used for storage, and as such was located near the edge of the mountain to keep the temperature of the room low. There was a window situated quite high up on the wall, but Balin had told him that with the right angling of mirrors and the like, the chamber would be sufficiently well-lit for plants to grow.

Right now, the room was empty of any sort of equipment needed to set up his garden. The floor was paved with stone, so when he had first inspected the room the day after his dinner with Thorin, he had decided that the first order of business would be to lay down a deep layer of soil after stripping away the stone. With some careful planning, he was sure that the room could be turned into a nice little hobbit garden indeed.

When the materials arrived from Dale and the Elvenking’s Halls, Bilbo set to work arranging the garden. Although he had insisted that the builders take Erebor’s reconstruction as their priority, Balin had told him in no uncertain terms that Thorin himself had ordered them to focus on fulfilling Bilbo’s demands. After all, Balin had said reasonably, there were plenty of other builders to work on the restoration, and a few bodies would hardly be missed.

Thus it was that the architects and workers had toiled hard the past few days to deliver on Bilbo’s vision, and as a result the previously-dark and dank room was now filled with a warm, soft light filtering in from the window up high and reflecting off mirrors placed strategically on the walls. A path had been clearly paved based on Bilbo’s blueprint, and was surrounded on all sides by a deep, thick layer of soil suitable even for planting trees.

Bilbo smiled a pleased smile as he felt the sensation of the cracks in the paving stones under his feet. It was a welcome feeling, reminiscent of his own garden. Although he had not yet been born when Bag End was being built, the house having been a gift from Bungo to Belladonna to mark their wedding, he did remember how the garden had evolved over time. He remembered how, with each birthday of Bilbo’s, Bungo had laid down new paving stones to newer areas of the garden, and encouraged Bilbo to arrange the new plot of land as suited his imagination and his whims.

A few days ago Bilbo had written to Hamfast and told him of his decision to stay at Erebor permanently, where he belonged. He had added that he was leaving Bag End to his cousins Drogo and Primula Baggins, who had been newlyweds ere his abrupt evacuation from the Shire, and that Belladonna’s set of silver spoons and china set were to be given to the Gamgees as thanks for their years of loyal service.

It had also given Bilbo great pleasure to write that he wished to, in all sincerity and with all his love, donate to his favourite cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins that lovely figurine of a female wolfhound which had sat atop his mantelpiece next to his silver spoons for twenty years ever since it had been given him for his thirty-first birthday by his grandmother Laura Baggins, as he had found the resemblance between dearest Lobelia and that majestic figurine _most_ uncanny. She had been admiring it most assiduously, after all, the twenty times she had invited herself to his humble abode to gently remonstrate with him about his life choices and his besmirchment of the Baggins name, and he was sure that she would make far better use of it than he!

The one thing he would truly regret the most about not returning to Bag End was that he would never get to see Lobelia’s reaction. Oh, perhaps she would keel over in shock, and that would be one problem solved for the rest of the inhabitants of the Shire. Well, a hobbit could certainly dream, couldn’t he.

He had also written to Hamfast and asked for some seeds from his garden, specifically seeds from Bungo’s gardenias, the barberry bushes around the edge of his garden, and some from the artichokes which had won him the Hobbiton village prize three years in a row. The missive had been delivered by raven, a large black bird named Linouac, who had side-eyed him most alarmingly at first before bending her head and snatching the message from him with her large claws. Bilbo hoped she wouldn’t give Hamfast too severe a shock when she delivered his letter, and hopefully he would receive his seeds from Hamfast in a month or so.

In the meantime, he had obtained several seeds from Bard and Thranduil. From Dale he had received simpler plants, broad beans and figs and sweet peas, which had been taken from Dale’s budding farmlands. Being the contrary arse that he was, Thranduil had sent simple herbs like parsley, sage and thyme, but coupled with exotic flowers completely unsuited to growing in limited sunlight. Bilbo sighed, and set those aside for a future project.

Oddvar had wandered into the garden after him, and was watching him curiously as he rooted around in the ground, placing the parsley seeds on top of the soil and sprinkling with a light dash of water from his pail. It was a beautiful shiny new watering pail, which had been delivered by Dwalin a day ago, and shaped, apparently, by Thorin. Although Bilbo feigned distress and concern that he had been an unnecessary diversion of Thorin’s valuable time, secretly he had felt rather happy at the gift. Evidently, when Thorin made a promise, he kept it, and Bilbo had carefully tucked the pail away in his closet for use when the seeds arrived.

“This is an odd-looking garden indeed,” Oddvar said mildly, after watching Bilbo trundle happily around his garden for a while.

“Odd-looking in what way?” Bilbo asked, making a mark on his blueprint where he intended to set up a crystal light.

Oddvar looked around with a faintly puzzled look on his face. “Well… It is not a dwarven garden, that is all. Nor is it an elven one, or a garden after the fashion of men. In our travels here from Ered Luin we saw many gardens along the way, many decorated with statues of stone and elaborate fountains, and in the case of men, strange deformed carvings which were intended to resemble goblins - or g-nomes, as they were called. Although you have had dwarven builders working on this day and night for the past few days, I see that you do not intend to place any of such decorations in your garden.”

“Well, Master Oddvar,” Bilbo said merrily, “this is a _hobbit_ garden, might I remind you, not a dwarf garden, or an elf garden, or indeed one built by men. We hobbits are simple folk, and we see no need to augment the natural beauty brought by our fruits and vegetables and flowers, with artificial ornaments. No, keep it plain and keep it simple, is what my father always told me, and I intend to follow his advice.”

Oddvar still seemed ill at ease with the garden, and poked suspiciously at one of the plain walls. “Are you sure you would not like a carving done into the walls?” he pressed. “Perhaps one telling of your riddles with Smaug, or your forays against the spiders of the Mirkwood, or your prowess upon the battlefield of Erebor? You know I am a smith myself, and I am myself loath to leave so bare and valuable a canvas empty.”

“Well, my garden won’t appeal to many a dwarf, I’ll wager,” said Bilbo loftily, “but all the same I think I’ll keep it as it is. There were no gaudy stone statues or self-aggrandising carvings in my garden in Bag End, and I rather think I’ll keep it that way.”

Oddvar shrugged, and leant against the wall next to the entranceway. “It is _your_ garden, after all, Master Bilbo,” he said, smiling, “and while I confess I do not understand the charm an unadorned chamber holds, if it holds value to you, then it is yours to do with as you please. Only - do not expect many a dwarf to seek this garden out at their leisure, is all.”

“You might be surprised,” Bilbo sniffed, and turned back to planting his begonias. Privately he agreed with Oddvar as to his last point - many of the dwarrows he had spoken to regarding his project had been skeptical, and often over-solicitous, regarding his decision to keep his garden to more of a hobbit style. Even _Ori_ had tried to subtly suggest placing a small effigy of himself or his parents on a pedestal in his garden, an alarming notion Bilbo had immediately dismissed.

Well, many of the dwarrows, except for Thorin. Thorin’s easy acceptance of his decision, and indeed his broaching of the subject, had surprised Bilbo greatly. He had not expected Thorin to take his side in the matter, and it had been a pleasant surprise when he had done so.

Bilbo frowned to himself. It was a mystery, that was for sure, and one he found difficult to penetrate.

Oh, well. There was work to do on his garden, and Thorin was a mysterious, implacable, absolutely frustrating creature, as he always had been. Bilbo resolved to turn his attention to other matters, and indeed spent the rest of his afternoon quietly and happily tending to his burgeoning garden.

*

The next time Oddvar joined Bilbo in his garden, he had a gift for Bilbo.

“Oh, Oddvar! This is absolutely _lovely!”_ Bilbo exclaimed, holding up the bracelet to the light. Privately he thought it a tad cumbersome and heavy to wear, but the roses carved out of amethyst on its clasp were truly a thing of wonder. He squinted at the intricate designs on the bracelet, which was fashioned after a twisting vine with red blossoms of roses and other fanciful, imagined plants (Oddvar was clearly no connoisseur of growing things). Then he realised that, like the brooch of gardenias, there were the cirth runes for ‘o’ and ‘w’ carved minutely into the gold.

“Oddvar,” he said sternly, “how have you had time to make yet another present for me? You barely leave my sight! Have you been shirking your duties? Or, perhaps, exerting yourself while you were supposed to be asleep? I cannot decide which is the lesser sin.” For Oddvar only left Bilbo’s side with another silent, sombre guard in his place during the night and early hours of the morning.

The dwarf shuffled his feet awkwardly, suddenly refusing to make eye contact with him. His normally ruddy cheeks flushed even further, and he tightened his jaw, as if unwilling to speak.

“It was no great trouble,” he said at last, through gritted teeth. “I… I already had the mould for the bracelet ready. It was a simple matter to pour the gold into the mould and add the roses. I hope you like it.” He glared fiercely at the ground, and suddenly Bilbo was reminded of Kíli when he had been caught trying to sneak his ‘pets’ into Bilbo’s room for safekeeping. He could not help but laugh at the image.

“I forgive you, Oddvar, though there was no great offence to forgive,” he said playfully, and dared to rest his hand on Oddvar’s arm. “’Tis a beautiful and fine piece of work. I appreciate it very much. Thank you.” To show just how much he appreciated it, he lifted his hand and slipped the bracelet over his fingers and onto his wrist, where the metal lay cool against his skin.

Oddvar looked up sharply. Bilbo started, wondering if something was wrong, but suddenly Oddvar’s face smoothed over, a mischievous smile formed on his face.

“Don’t I get a reward, then?” he asked cheekily. “For my hard work?”

The twinkle in his eye was so reminiscent of Bofur’s that Bilbo had to stifle another laugh. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and shook his head with a smile.

“Alright then, you insolent dwarf,” he said, “I wonder what reward you demand?”

“A hug,” Oddvar replied, after a short deliberation. “I have heard from those in the know that your hugs are a great treasure, given few and far between, and I would consider it a fine payment for my hard work indeed!”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows at the audacious request. A hug? Why, the gall of this dwarf, to ask for such intimacies! But, then again, it was such a _beautiful_ piece of work, and he did very much like Oddvar and his cheer and the idiosyncrasies of his odd personality… Surely a hug would be no great imposition. A hug between friends, that was all, nothing harmless at all.

“Alright,” he said, with a put-upon sigh. “Come here, you big lummock.” He lifted his arms and wrapped them around Oddvar, who smelled, oddly enough, of smoked ham and a little bit of camembert cheese.

There was a sudden thud from behind him, and Bilbo startled, but Oddvar’s grasp was tight around him.

“What was that?” he said sharply, when he had successfully wriggled out from Oddvar’s hold. “Did you hear that? It sounded like someone - ” He turned around, fully intent on marching into the corridor, where the sound had originated.

“MUSHROOMS!”

Bilbo jumped about a foot in the air, and spun around to face Oddvar again, who had uttered the proclamation. He had a slightly panicked look on his face.

 _“What?”_ Bilbo exclaimed.

Appearing to compose himself, Oddvar offered him a quick smile. “Mushrooms,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “I was craving mushrooms. Shall we stop by the marketplace and see if Fathi is selling those marvellous mushrooms we sampled the other day?”

Bilbo frowned, and moved towards the corridor. “Just a moment,” he said, “I thought I heard - “

“No!” Oddvar shouted, grabbing his shoulder and stopping him where he stood. “I - I want mushrooms now. I am urgently _craving_ Fathi’s mushrooms. Please, Master Bilbo, I am almost fainting from hunger. Shall we go to the marketplace? It might have just been a cave crawler, or one of those awful gredbyg, after all.”

Bilbo looked at him dubiously. Perhaps he was a trifle daft, a few peas short of a pod - or perhaps he did simply have a sudden craving for mushrooms. Bilbo himself did occasionally experience sudden desires for food, especially when the dish was as good as Fathi’s Fried Frostcaps…

“Very well,” Bilbo said at last, although he cast one last suspicious look at the corridor. The journey with the Company had taught him to ever be on his guard, and to always trust his instincts, but he supposed that if Oddvar, a trained guard of Erebor, hand-selected by Dís and Thorin to guard him, had dismissed any danger from that quarter… He might be making a mountain out of a molehill if he insisted on finding danger where there was none. It was probably some beastly denizen of the mountain, as Oddvar had mentioned, against which the dwarrows had been fighting a desperate battle recently.

Well, now _he_ was craving mushrooms. Oh dear, he hoped there was still time for a visit to the marketplace before he was due at Thorin’s for their dinner that night…

*

“Ereborean smoked ham, as requested!” Bombur exclaimed with a flourish, setting the silver-plated dish down onto Thorin’s table.

“However did you manage to find smoked ham, Bombur?” Bilbo said, with a delighted smile. “Bofur was complaining earlier that there was none to be found in the marketplace earlier!”

Bombur laughed, a deep, booming sound which send tremors through the table. “I’m afraid that was all me, Bilbo,” he admitted merrily. “I bought the last of the smoked hams this morning - the lady Dís was craving sandwiches of ham and cheese for breakfast, and would not be put off by the knowledge that she would be depriving the rest of the citizens of such a necessity for the rest of the day! Besides,” he added with a wink, “I have heard from a funny little dwarf of your propensity for our hams. I thought it would be a nice treat for you, Bilbo.”

“Yes, Dís often has these strange whims and fancies of her. A mighty troublesome thing they are sometimes, too,” grumbled Thorin, as he poked half-heartedly on the salad Bilbo had pointedly piled on his plate.

“Don’t think I don’t see you trying to shove the cucumbers into your pockets, Your Majesty,” Bilbo said sternly, pointing at Thorin with an accusatory fork. Thorin looked up guiltily, and slid the cucumbers back onto his plate, frowning unhappily at having been thwarted. He had been grumpy ever since he had opened the door to admit Bilbo. However, he had gently rebuffed any attempts on Bilbo’s part to inquire as to the cause of his chagrin, and had also made a clear effort to pull himself out of his black mood. Bilbo decided it must have been a difficult day on the throne tending to the requests of the people - a malady which could only be cured by good food and good company, both of which Bilbo was determined he would provide this evening.

As Bombur bustled off to the kitchen to fetch the last dish, Bilbo assiduously shovelled more of Thorin’s favourite foods onto his plate and made sure to include plenty of mutton to make up for the salad Thorin had finally consented to eating. The affectionate smile granted him by Thorin in return more than made up for his bad mood earlier, although he still seemed perturbed, a frown creasing his thick brows and casting a shadow over his eyes.

“How is your work on the garden proceeding, Master Baggins?” Thorin said, and Bilbo swallowed to dismiss the twinge in his chest at being addressed in so formal a manner. He supposed it was only right, since he was now referring to Thorin by his kingly title, that Thorin utilise a more distant manner of naming him. But just because he knew it to be right hardly made it _feel_ right to him, if he was being completely honest with himself…

And now Thorin was staring at him in confusion, having received no answer to his question while Bilbo had been brooding on inconsequential matters. Yavanna, Bilbo really was going senile, and at the tender age of sixty-two-or-something years.

“Things proceed apace,” he answered quickly. “Your dwarven builders are certainly efficient - we had the lighting system up and the soil laid down in a matter of days! I was really quite impressed with your workers’ productivity. I have begun work on the planting. Did you know Thranduil sent me orchids? _Orchids,_ I ask you! What a ridiculous notion!”

At Thorin’s blank look of incomprehension, Bilbo sighed exasperatedly and clucked his tongue. “Orchids,” he explained patiently, “are most pernickety and finicky plants when grown outside their natural habitat. They require much careful adjustment of their surroundings, and I have little expertise in the growing of orchids, so the seeds were practically useless to me! … Sit down, Your Highness, this is not a matter meriting your intervention, although I know you’re practically raring for an excuse to tussle with Thranduil,” Bilbo said peevishly, interrupting Thorin’s attempt to stand and leave the table.

Thorin growled and seized his fork and knife. He carved brutally into the mutton steak on his plate, as if imagining the cut of meat to be Thranduil’s thin, beautiful, vicious face, and chomped ferociously on a piece of the mutton he brought to his mouth. Bilbo winced.

“That blasted _elf,”_ he grumbled, once he had satisfied his need for catharsis. “He probably intended insult through it. You know he never does anything without considering the consequences and every inference that can possibly be drawn from his actions.”

Bilbo sighed to hide his grin at having successfully diverted Thorin’s attention from whatever had been troubling him that day - Thranduil was always a safe target to divert Thorin’s anger onto, since it was a visceral, satisfying hatred the dwarven king had for him.

“Well, you know what he’s like,” Bilbo remarked casually in reply. “Once I have settled the main part of my garden, I will plant his orchids in the centre and perhaps invite him to my garden to see for himself precisely how they are flourishing. I think I will write to Elrond to ask if he has lore-masters familiar in the art of orchid-growing whose expertise he is willing to lend to me…”

At that moment, Bombur trotted back into the room.

“And Fathi’s Fried Frostcaps, as requested,” he declared with a triumphant smile, placing the plate of the most exquisite mushrooms Bilbo had ever seen in front of him. Bilbo hurriedly placed his hand over his mouth to keep himself from drooling, although it was a very near thing.

“Bombur!” he cried, in awe. “You are a magician. How did you possibly _know_ that I was craving Fathi’s mushrooms?”

Bombur winked mischievously at him. “No magic, I’m afraid,” he said, “just a very well-informed little spy.”

Thorin smiled obligingly. “Then we must know the name of this spy, so we know who to thank for satisfying Master Bagginses’ palate this evening,” he said, laying his hand on Bombur’s arm. “Or is that to stay a secret?”

“No secret, Your Majesty,” said Bombur, with a twinkle. “Oddvar, son of Vidar, is his name - he has been most diligently giving his attention to Bilbo’s needs, and indeed it was he who informed me that, due to an excess of time spent in his garden this afternoon, he and Bilbo were unfortunately unable to procure some of Fathi’s famed mushrooms for their consumption before Bilbo was due here for dinner. In fact,” he remarked, whipping out another plate from behind him, “I am to take this plate of mushrooms to him as well, to thank him for his information. Enjoy your meal, Bilbo, Your Majesty.” With that, he swept off with the same unnatural speed and litheness which had so surprised Bilbo upon initial acquaintance with the rotund cook.

 _“Oddvar,”_ Thorin muttered, and Bilbo was surprised to see that the dispirited frown had returned to his face.

Then Bilbo remembered that Thorin had been suspicious of Oddvar their previous dinner - inordinately suspicious, in Bilbo’s opinion - and he sought to hastily divert Thorin’s attention, to avoid further distress on Thorin’s part.

“Won’t you try a mushroom?” he said quickly, and scooped up a large spoonful of the aforementioned fungi, gesturing in a rather frantic way towards Thorin’s mouth. “They’re really quite good! I spoke to Fathi yesterday evening, and he said he was doing a roaring business. He picked up the technique in the Shire, you see, and actually, now that I come to think of it, I remember old Bodo Proudfoot’s family recipe for fried mushrooms being rather the same sort of thing - “

A swift touch to his wrist stayed his movement suddenly, and stopped him in his ramble. Bilbo looked at the thick hand on his wrist with a growing sense of foreboding, and indeed Thorin’s hand lay on the bracelet forged by Oddvar that now ringed his wrist.

“How came you by this?” Thorin said, and his voice was curiously soft, devoid of emotion. Bilbo looked warily at him.

“A gift from a friend,” he hedged. “Look, Thorin - “

“The maker’s mark is unfamiliar to me,” Thorin continued, his hand on Bilbo’s wrist gentle, but stern, “but I recognise the runes. This is another gift from Oddvar, is it not?”

“Well, yes,” Bilbo admitted, seeing that the cat was out of the hobbit hole. “He gave it to me earlier this afternoon.”

“I see.”

Thorin’s expression was blank, and he removed his hand from Bilbo’s wrist. The motion left Bilbo feeling strangely bereft.

There was a silence for a few moments, another of those tense silences that seemed to punctuate all of their recent interactions. Thorin ate quietly, keeping his eyes on his plate, the clinking of his cutlery inordinately loud in the quiet of the room.

At last he spoke, and he seemed to find the words difficult to shape. “Master Baggins,” he said, his tone steady and very, very calm, “Oddvar is a good dwarf, as far as Dís and Dwalin were aware. But I must warn you still to be careful. There might be others you know not of - some other plot - “ He seemed to lose his eloquence and his courage then, and his mouth set in an unhappy line.

Bilbo tried a carefree laugh, although it came out sounding twisted and odd. “You need not worry,” he said, and his voice was strangely brittle. “As you said, Oddvar is a good dwarf. He means me no harm - why, he is just a friend to me! He is not cut from the same cloth as Zdenka, or Ardris, or Wili. Why are you so concerned, Your Majesty? Are you worried he is trying to court me? What an absurd idea!” he added, meaning it as a joke to defuse the tension.

A heavy silence, and Thorin averted his eyes.

Bilbo laughed again, but this time it was a shrill laugh. “You cannot mean that!” he said incredulously. He stood from the table and put his hands on his hips, suddenly feeling unaccountably angry with Thorin, this contrary, insufferable king who saw enemies at every corner and sought to warn him off one of the few friends he had in Erebor - no, Bilbo would not have it, no he would most certainly _not!_

“Oddvar is my friend, and no more,” he said severely. “Any carnal aspect to our relationship is, I quite assure you, quite out of the question! And further to the point, Master Dwarf - “ here he quite expected guards to charge into the room and clap him in irons for his insolence, but when no such guards were forthcoming, he forged on: “ - you have no right to control who I can and cannot befriend! You may be King Under the Mountain, Thorin, but I can assure you, I am a grown hobbit and can choose my company as I please. Even if it be to eschew your company in favour of that of Oddvar, son of Vidar!”

Thorin stood, towering over Bilbo, his face now a mask of anger and wroth. “I can assure you, Master Hobbit,” he thundered, “that I have every right, as _your_ king, and the leader of the Company with whom you travelled to Erebor, _my_ kingdom!”

They stood, toe to toe, staring furiously into each others’ eyes, but Bilbo refused to submit, and suddenly it was as if something broke inside Thorin, for he turned and lifted one hand to cover his face. Bilbo could no longer see his eyes.

“If - If that’s who you want, what you want - I want the best for you,” he said, softly, forlornly. “I want you to be safe.”

 _And I want you to be mine,_ Bilbo thought, with a sudden, bitter, agonising passion, _but we can’t all get what we want, can we?_

Completely incensed, and utterly finished with Thorin, Bilbo stomped angrily from the room and slammed the door behind him.

“Dull-witted, brainless, _fucking_ dwarrows!” he screamed, as soon as he had reached his quarters and shut the door firmly in a very bewildered Oddvar’s face. Futilely he slammed his fists against the wall of his chamber, but as they were made of solid rock, there was no satisfying feeling of the wall giving way under his fists afforded to him. When pounding against the wall brought him no comfort, he flopped down on his bed and tore at his sheets, almost crying in frustration.

Finally, when thrashing about and screaming his throat raw had exhausted him, he lay silently on his bed and thought. He thought, mainly of Thorin, and how Thorin’s hand had trembled as he had held it over his face.

What an unutterably complex, and completely frustrating dwarf! More intensely than ever Bilbo longed for a return to their relationship before it had been destroyed by the gold sickness. More deeply than ever Bilbo regretted his betrayal and his use of the Arkenstone, for it seemed to have formed some unassailable rift between the two of them. Bilbo did not know if Thorin could ever bring himself to trust Bilbo again.

Quietly, and almost unconsciously, his hand crept to his old robes, which he kept on his dresser beside his bed. The cold touch of metal on his fingers soothed him, and on a sudden impulse, he grasped the set of rags which had doubled as his clothes and wrested them to lay across his lap.

The little gold ring lay in the tangle of brown cloth between his legs. Suddenly he very much wished to put it on, to turn invisible and escape from Erebor, to escape from the net of anger and pain which had drawn itself close around Thorin and he. To leave for the green hills of the Shire where he _belonged._ Because, try as he might, he would never be a dwarf, and Thorin would never be a hobbit, and if he remained in Erebor, surely he would wither away. It would a simple matter indeed, to put on the ring and disappear - he could pack his things in a jiffy, they were laid out neatly in his room after all - put on his pack and run to Dale, where he could surely sneak onto one of the myriad boats sailing to the Brandywine -

_It would be simpler even, to put on the ring and creep into Thorin’s chambers, where he surely was, still, to approach that broad, strong back and place his clever hobbit fingers around the hilt of Sting - one thrust, and he would be rid of the source of his unhappiness in one fell swoop -_

Bilbo slammed his fist against his head, and tasted blood in his mouth. The copper tang helped him recover his senses, and remembering the thoughts that had been running through his head, he almost fell over himself scrambling backwards and away from - what? Himself? He knew not. How such vile thoughts had entered his head -

His hand closed unwittingly over a small, inconspicuous lump in the pile of brown rags, and he blinked.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bilbo drew the acorn out of the pocket of the robe, and stared at it.

Why, he remembered this well - an acorn from Beorn’s garden, was it not? Was it not the acorn he had presented to Thorin, in the midst of the king’s gold sickness - the acorn he had told Thorin would find its place in the garden of Bag End?

Slowly the fog of anger and confusion began to clear from his mind. His fingers gripped tightly around the small round seed in his hands, and suddenly it was clear to him what he must do.

Leaping out of bed, he went to the door and peered out. True to form, Oddvar had been replaced by Bilbo’s nighttime guard, a surly, unspeaking dwarf who had not deigned to give his name. This dwarf preferred to position himself facing the corridor that ran outside the royal rooms. As such, he did not notice as the door of Bilbo’s room swung slightly outwards, leaving a gap just big enough for a small-bodied hobbit, and then swung close silently.

Bilbo knew from experience how to avoid attention from others when sneaking around under the cloak of invisibility accorded him by his ring. Thus it was with little difficulty that he reached the small, inconspicuous door that marked the entrance to his hobbit garden.

Hurrying to the centre of the room, where the moonlight from the window reflected directly onto a large, deep plot of soil, Bilbo squatted and pulled the acorn from his pocket. Here was where he had intended for the orchids sent by Thranduil to grow, as the gaudy centrepiece of his garden, a sort of subtle triumphant ‘fuck you’ gesture to the Elvenking, but now he had a different plan.

With trembling fingers he laid the acorn in the ground and covered it with soil. Beside the plot of land was neatly placed his lovely little golden pail, carved by Thorin, and greatly treasured by him. In it still was water taken from the springs that fed into the depths of Erebor. Bilbo sprinkled the spot where the acorn had been planted with water from the pail, and smoothed his fingers gently over the soil.

 _There_ , he thought, feeling a lump form in his throat. _At least I will have something of mine, and Thorin’s, to treasure._ For the acorn had been as much a part of Thorin as it had been a part of Bilbo, a shared trinket that had represented their friendship and fondness for each other.

Bilbo slipped back into his bed that night, and dreamt of Thorin’s smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all the lovely readers enjoying the story so far - as promised, here's the final chapter. also, i'm thinking of writing a smutty coda to this fic - it didn't quite fit in w the arc of this story, but when things got heated near the end... well ;) let me know what y'all think!  
> again, thank you to aidan, my vvv amazing beta <3

Bilbo did not think Thorin would apologise to him, so he should have known, conversely, to expect an apology. Thorin seemed to be fond, whether intentionally or not, of surprising him and upturning Bilbo’s expectations of him, both in a good or a bad way.

It was not that Bilbo thought Thorin prideful, or arrogant. It was just that Bilbo had not expected Thorin to consider their argument significant enough to warrant an apology.

This made the warm feeling in his chest swell even further when he opened his door that morning to a very solemn-faced Thorin, who had actually rung his bell - rung his bell, imagine that! - for the very first time. Bilbo still remembered their first meeting when Thorin had so rudely banged on the door to Bag End to demand entry, although he had to admit that the memory brought more fondness than irritation now. 

Still he effected a stern demeanour. He felt quite aggrieved, in fact, and believed that he was wholly innocent of any wrongdoing. It was Thorin, after all, who had blown up over nothing - nothing but the sordid speculations of his own mind.

“Yes?” he said, severely. Thorin had his hands behind his back, and was looking quite sheepish.

“Master Baggins…” he began, then sighed. It was not a put-upon sigh, but rather an unhappy sigh, and it was the only reason why Bilbo relented, and gestured for Thorin to enter his rooms with an impatient roll of his eyes.

“Come in then,” he snapped peevishly, marching over to his armchair and settling himself down with a loud  _ whump. _ “I would not be so remiss in my manners as to demand that the monarch of this mountain remain outside when there is a perfectly good breakfast to be had in my quarters. Even if he has made me very, very angry.”

Thorin walked in, his gait hesitant and yet slow and sure as it always had been. Quietly he brought the tray from the breakfast table to the low table in front of the fireplace where Bilbo was seated. The teapot was dwarfed in his large, broad hands as he lifted it and elegantly poured a cup of tea into one of Bilbo’s precious porcelain teacups.

Bilbo took the proffered peace offering with a haughty sniff, secretly pleased at Thorin’s obeisance, but outwardly deciding not to appear so easily bought. He still hadn’t heard hide nor hair of an apology, after all, and he did rather think he deserved one.

It seemed to take a long time for Thorin to start speaking again, but once he did, the words came with a solemn surety that lent a sense of gravity to the proceedings.

“Master Baggins,” he said, very formally indeed, “I beg you to accept my apologies for the incidents that transpired last night in my quarters. I have grievously offended you in my insinuations upon your character, and as such I offer you a favour to be owed to my person, and any punishment you seek to enforce upon me, I will humbly accept.” Having thus finished his apology, he bowed his head and waited patiently for a reply.

Bilbo lasted for only a few moments before he finally broke.

“Oh, you silly dwarf!” he cried, quite exasperated with the whole blasted business. “Just say sorry, why don’t you, and dispense with the formalities already!”

Thorin turned his head slightly off to the side, as if he could not bear to look Bilbo in the eyes. “I feel that I have wronged you greatly,” he said softly, “and I wished to make it up to you.”

Bilbo sighed, and shook his head. “Well, you did enrage me quite a lot last night,” he said reasonably, “and I do believe it was the first time I’d been quite so angry as all that. But,” and here he held up a finger, to stave off any interruptions from Thorin, “I forgive you, and accept your apology, although we had best consider the favours and punishments and whatnot moot. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to offer someone a hold over your royal head so easily, you know. I… I do consider you a friend of mine, you know, and friends forgive each other,” he added, almost inaudibly, and he wondered if his words would be well-received.

He needn’t have worried, he realised, for at his words Thorin’s eyes crinkled and he lapsed into one of his almost-smiles. Turning his head back to look into Bilbo’s eyes once more, he left his seat and knelt down in front of Bilbo, who quickly put his teacup down and wiped his sweaty hands on his dressing robe. Thorin took Bilbo’s hands in his and held them, very gently, in Bilbo’s lap.

“I was wrong to speak to you in such an overbearing manner,” he murmured gravely, his voice husky from sleep. “I was wrong to think that I could dictate your relationships and the company you keep, for I have no right to do so, even as the ruler of this kingdom. Master Baggins, can you ever forgive me?”

“Mmm,” Bilbo said eloquently, being rather distracted by Thorin’s thumb stroking over the skin of his hand in a very disarming manner. “Well - I already said I’d forgive you, so forgive you I will, and let us not speak of this again.”

“Good,” Thorin said softly. His breath whispered across the back of Bilbo’s hands, and Bilbo started sweating. “I would hate to think that I had lost your favour through my own idiocy.”

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said, with a weak smile, “You - “  _ could never lose my favour, you have my heart, and all that I am I will give to you, if you’ll only have me - “ _ needn’t worry, truly. I know you spoke impulsively, and that you won’t give Oddvar any trouble, won’t you?”

Thorin shook his head adamantly, resembling nothing less than a large puppy, and Bilbo had to restrain a laugh. It seemed as if he had thought on this long and hard the previous night, for his answer came readily enough.

“He is your choice, and so I will abide by your wishes,” Thorin said solemnly. Bilbo thought it was a rather odd way of putting the friendship between him and Oddvar. “Your happiness is all that matters to me, after all.”

And how could Bilbo’s heart not melt after that sincere proclamation?

Bilbo rewarded him with another shaky smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he murmured, quietly, and squeezed Thorin’s hands briefly. They remained there for a few moments - Bilbo could swear his heart was beating at a thousand miles an hour, and his face was curiously flushed - while Thorin just gazed at him with his hooded eyes and that same unhappy twist to his mouth. 

Then the morning gong chimed for eight o’clock, and the moment was broken. Thorin lifted himself to his feet and bowed formally.

“I am afraid I must take my leave of you, Master Baggins,” he said, “although it is my hope that we will see each other again soon.”

“Oh! Well, quite,” Bilbo said hurriedly, leaping up to stand and usher Thorin out of the door. “I agree. We will have our dinner together again next week, at the same time, will we not?” And he turned his face upwards towards Thorin with a hopeful smile.

Thorin nodded, his hand lingering on the door frame as if he could not bear to go. “We will meet again then, Master Baggins,” he murmured, and gripped Bilbo’s shoulder briefly, before turning and shutting the door behind him.

Bilbo walked back to his armchair and collapsed into it in rather a daze.

It was not long after that that another knock came at his door, and Bilbo, feeling thoroughly boneless and unwilling to rise, called out “Enter” and the door opened. Oddvar trotted in, another of his amused grins on his face.

“I say, Master Baggins,” he remarked jovially, helping himself to scones from the table - he really was turning out to be a rather insolent dwarf, for his station at least - and plonking himself down onto the chair opposite Bilbo. “You seem to have rather a hold on our majestic King’s heart, if I may say so myself.”

Bilbo frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Oddvar shrugged, causing a cascade of crumbs to shower from his mouth and cover his jerkin and armour. “Nothing. Just some words he had with me outside, after he had finished his business with you…” then he smirked, and covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, but I wasn’t supposed to tell you! Forget I ever said that.”

Bilbo sprang from his chair, eyes wide. “What do you mean -  _ words?” _ he cried, fuming. “You mean to say - you mean to say His Majesty reprimanded you when he went outside after our conversation? Oh, and after he’d just apologised to me, and all! The cheek of that dwarf! Why, I must speak to him immediately - “

“No, nothing of the sort!” Oddvar said, laughing merrily as he popped the last of his scones into his mouth. “Although I must say it flatters me that you leap so quickly to my defence. No, our conversation was quite cordial. He gave me his blessing, and - well, I ought not to say. Things are moving apace, yes indeed they are!” and he chuckled to himself.

Bilbo sighed, partly in relief, partly in exasperation. “Alright, keep your secrets if you wish,” he grumbled. “Though why dwarrows have to keep their secrets so close to their hearts, I’ll never understand! As long as he was perfectly civil and nice to you, that’s all.”

Oddvar grinned, and handed him a piece of paper. “A message from Lord Balin, I think,” he said.

It was indeed a message from Balin, asking Bilbo to meet him for luncheon, to discuss some matters regarding the architecture of the garden. Bilbo sighed - it was likely another veiled attempt to persuade him to put another of those blasted dwarf statues in his garden again, and by Yavanna, when would these stubborn dwarrows understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?

Although it  _ had  _ been rather a long time since he had seen Balin, aside from the advisor’s occasional visits to look in on the garden and drop a kindly word of encouragement. Bilbo realised he had been rather neglecting his friendships in the course of his new obsession with his garden. It seemed a long time indeed since he had last seen Bofur, or Ori, or any of the other dwarrows, since they were often kept busy with their own obligations and sometimes forgot to call on him.

Well, even if Balin took the visit as an excuse to needle him on the matter of decorations for his hobbit-garden, Bilbo decided it would be good for him to go. 

So it was that Bilbo went to Balin’s quarters for luncheon. They were served by one of Bombur’s multiple underlings who had been deemed fit enough to serve royalty - Galti, if Bilbo’s memory served him well, and he politely enquired as to the state of Galti’s little beardling. Galti startled at the sudden question, and would have dropped the entire tray of potatoes if not for Bilbo’s quick reflexes.

“Quite - Quite well, Master Baggins, sir!” Galti stammered, blushing as red as a tomato, when he had sufficiently recovered his sense. “Geifrig is eleven this year, sir - still a babe in arms, and my Alma is diligently nursing him daily. He has just grown his first wisp of beard, sir!”

“Indeed?” Bilbo said generously. “What a strapping little beardling he must be! Give my regards to your dear wife and your darling little boy.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir!” Galti said, bowing frantically and shuffling out of the room as fast as he could. Bilbo returned his attention to the meal, only to find Balin smiling at him in rather a facetious way, Bilbo thought.

“ _ What?” _ he snapped, peevishly.

“Oh, nothing,” Balin said airily, tearing into the hunk of beef on his plate. “You have quite a way with dwarrows, don’t you?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Bilbo said, feeling altogether uncomfortable at the clear untruth. “How can I have a way with dwarrows? I’m a hobbit, after all. Entirely different species, I can assure you.” He tucked the napkin into his collar primly - even though he ate with barbarians, it didn’t mean he had to completely forget his manners, after all.

“It’s got nothing to do with that, laddie,” Balin said in reply. “You have a way with  _ people, _ no question about it, Bilbo - you’re a very special hobbit, after all. I don’t think there’s any one of our company who’s quite forgotten that.”

Balin’s words gave Bilbo a little warm feeling in his chest. It  _ was  _ nice to be appreciated, when one received so little appreciation nowadays. He harrumphed and tried not to let his blush show. 

“Anyway,” Balin continued, oblivious to Bilbo’s inner turmoil, “I hear the garden’s coming along splendidly.”

_ Here we go, _ Bilbo thought. “Yes, coming along quite fine, actually,” he said out loud, trying to head Balin off the topic of decor. “I’ve just put in some of the flowers from Dale and I’ve left some space for the seeds from my garden.”  _ And the acorn from Beorn’s house,  _ he thought, and he wondered at how he found it difficult to divulge to Balin the fact that he had planted the acorn in his garden. It rather felt like something private - to be kept secret, to be kept safe, to be kept his alone, so that if the tree ever grew, he would be able to stand under its shade and know that he alone would gaze upon it while knowing the significance of the tree.

“I see you’re making good use of Thorin’s gift then,” Balin said, smiling a knowing smile.

Bilbo frowned, confused. “A... gift?” he said. Oh! Balin must have meant the pail. His lovely golden pail, unadorned but with a simple rose trellis forming the handle, the one that had been carved by Thorin’s hand - 

Balin interrupted his train of thought. “He hasn’t given it to you?” he asked blankly. “But I could have sworn - the big funny bird from Lórien - I thought I saw, yesterday at the gardens - “

“What is it, Balin?” Bilbo said impatiently. “You’re not making any sense.”

The old dwarf stared at him with what seemed like an incredulous look on his face, before finally he looked away disgustedly. “That foolish dwarf!” he barked. He turned his face back to Bilbo with an apologetic look on his face.

“I beg your pardon, Bilbo,” he said kindly. “I did not mean to speak so angrily. It is only - some dwarrows absolutely  _ vex _ me, sometimes!”

“I know what you mean,” commiserated Bilbo, very resolutely  _ not  _ thinking of Thorin. “Or - rather, I  _ don’t  _ know what you mean. What’s all this about a gift? Do you mean the pail Thor - the king gave me? If so, then yes, I have been using it rather assiduously. It has been very useful in my gardening.”

Balin shook his head. “‘Tis nothing, laddie - I often confuse myself in my old age, now,” he murmured. “I meant the pail. Yes, I am glad to hear you are making good use of it. Thorin did spend quite a lot of time designing it and forging it, you know.”

Bilbo smiled, a wistful smile. “Then I am glad to have such a worthy gift, crafted by His Majesty’s hand.”

Balin peered at him for a few moments, and Bilbo met his gaze with a puzzled stare of his own. After a few moments, Balin sat back and sighed. It was a long, gusty sigh.

“I see now what she meant,” he mumbled. “Well, I suppose  _ that  _ explains the drastic measures she’s taken…”

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo said, rather irritated by now. Confound and confusticate these dwarrows! He was beginning to think all of them had at least a few screws loose. After all, there was precious little else to explain the strange way Oddvar, and now Balin, were acting, other than some great racial fault in their mental faculties.

“Never you mind now, Bilbo,” Balin said. “Now, shall we talk about the empty spaces in your garden? Quite a blasphemy to leave them empty Bilbo, I must say - can I not convince you to place a nice bust of Thorin on a pedestal in one of those spots? Or perhaps Fíli or Kíli, since I know you are fond of them?”

“Not this again!” Bilbo groaned. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, Balin, mine is to be a hobbit garden, and us hobbits don’t hold with big gaudy stone statues in our garden. I won’t have it, I tell you, not in  _ my  _ garden…”

*

A few days later Bilbo was in his garden again. He was alone, Oddvar having stationed himself outside the door to the room, and was happily weeding his plots. His flowers and herbs were coming along nicely, the soil being of good quality, and also because of his daily ministrations. 

When he was done watering his plants and rooting around in the soil for more pesky weeds, he straightened and absently wiped his hands on his overalls. He glanced around the room, looking for any imperfections or undone chores, when almost inadvertently, his eyes alighted on the bare plot of land where he had planted his acorn.

His feet carried him over to the little patch of soil, and he stood looking down at the ground. Although he did not know much about growing oaks, he had spoken to several lore-masters and gardeners in Dale, and they had given his acorn about four days before it would start to germinate. Shorter than the usual germination time of an acorn, since it had been taken from a Beorning’s garden, which usually had nature magic infused into its plants and animals. 

And yet it had shown no signs at all of growth. It had been six days since he planted it - almost a week, and yet nothing visible had changed. Bilbo knew he was fretting, likely needlessly, but somehow somewhere along the way this little acorn had become of inconceivable importance to him. 

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered to himself, bustling to fetch his pail from its treasured place in the storeroom located in an alcove of his garden. “You’re fretting unnecessarily, Bilbo Baggins; you know nothing about oak trees, after all, and less about nature magic, so you’re just being a worrywart, plain and simple. There’s nothing that says that the acorn won’t grow, and all you can do is give it the love and attention it deserves…” He trailed off as he returned to his garden and saw Thorin standing just in front of the doors to the garden, having evidently just entered.

Thorin looked quizzically to Bilbo as he abruptly cut off his speech. 

“Trouble, Master Baggins?” he queried. He was wearing his courtly robes, and Bilbo hazarded a quick guess at the time - perhaps sometime in the late afternoon, when Thorin usually finished holding court. 

Thorin looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and the crow’s feet by his eyes even more pronounced. But as he spoke to Bilbo, the lines on his forehead smoothened out, and something about the stern cast of his face relaxed. 

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo said. “I’m just - putting your gift to good use?” He held out the pail in his hands, suddenly feeling the need to show to Thorin that his gift was appreciated, and well-used. Thorin smiled, and inclined his head.

“I am glad you find it useful,” he murmured. “I have just finished holding court, and I was wondering if I could take a look around your garden. It seems to be coming along quite beautifully, in fact.”

A sudden rush of courage filled Bilbo’s veins, and he thrust the pail towards Thorin in a daring fashion. Some of the water spilled out of the pail, almost wetting Thorin’s coat, but he seemed hardly to notice as he glanced down at the pail and then back up at Bilbo in a quizzical manner.

“Won’t you help me tend my garden?” Bilbo blurted out. Then he winced. What was he thinking - to order the King Under the Mountain around in so casual a manner was surely a grave offence. It was likely Thorin would not wish to sully his hands tending to a simple hobbit garden, after all, and to command the King so unceremoniously - 

Bilbo was hastily retracting his offer, and his hand, when Thorin touched him, his fingers curling over Bilbo’s. It was a gentle touch, and somehow it stayed Bilbo’s hand.

“It - It would please me greatly to have your trust in this matter,” Thorin said quietly, and there was a sudden tenderness in his voice which made Bilbo’s heart constrict painfully.

He shook his head to bring himself back to the moment. “Well - Well then, that’s settled. I mean, I’ll show you around the garden. Most of the plants are coming along nicely, well, the less demanding ones, at least, and you’ll just need to give them a little sprinkle…”

Thorin was content to follow him about the garden, obediently trotting behind Bilbo as Bilbo pointed out the various buds and herbs in his garden and directed him to spray some plots of land with the water from his pail. Twice they had to refill his pail from the tap near the front of the garden. Thorin was surprisingly docile and the conversation flowed easily, Bilbo nattering on animatedly and Thorin interjecting with occasional questions as to some of the more exotic-looking plants. 

“ - just a little on the begonias, here, yes they just need their soil slightly moist so make sure not to sprinkle too much water on. Yes, that’s right, just right. And over here - “ Bilbo stopped abruptly as he realised they had reached the centrepiece of the room.

After a few moments of silence, Thorin spoke up, his voice puzzled. “Master Baggins?” he asked. The pail he held lightly in his hands, as if it weighed no more than a feather.

“Right - well. Harrumph.” Bilbo cleared his throat. “This is - you know, where the orchids are planted,” he lied. “Going to be planted. Thranduil’s orchids, you know. They’ll take pride of place, just like I told you, so if he ever visits he’ll know hobbits aren’t to be cowed even by finicky fickle plants like these. Give them more water, yes, a little more… yes, that’s good. It’s fine. Haven’t - haven’t seen any signs of growth, but I do hope it’ll - they’ll grow soon.” He realised he was worrying at the hem of his sweater, and hastily stuffed his hands in his pocket.

“Is that all?” Thorin said. Although the question could possibly have been construed as derisive, Thorin said it in a rather neutral sort of way, and Bilbo decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially with the way he’d been openly admiring and smelling some of the plants he’d recognised earlier. Bilbo nodded, and took the pail from Thorin.

“I must say, you  _ have _ done a fine job with the garden,” Thorin said, and this time his voice was approving. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “It’s well designed, and the plants seem to be growing well.”

“You must give your compliments to Balin then, for he directed the workers and the building efforts.”

Thorin looked down at Bilbo. “You are too humble, Master Baggins. I believe most of the credit must go to you, for you are the reason why this garden came into existence at all,” he said softly, and something about his eyes and the intimate rumble of his voice made Bilbo stop breathing. Thorin had always had a rather intense way of looking at you, as if you were the only person in existence at that moment in time. Bilbo still remembered the first time they’d met - when Thorin had turned his gaze upon him, filled with derision and disdain at that time, and Bilbo had felt pinned to the ground.

Now it was an intensity of a different sort, the kind that made Bilbo felt all hot under the collar and, alternately, as if he was physically melting where he stood.

Before the whole debacle with the dragon and all, Bilbo would have responded with a warm smile and a heated look of his own. Now - now he hardly knew what to think. Was he mistaking their friendship for something more? Was he incorrect in taking the simple gentleness and kindness of Thorin’s manner as an indicator of deeper intentions? It was difficult for him to read Thorin well, nowadays. It was as if they were looking at each other, from across a great chasm, too much and yet too little holding them together.

Thorin kept looking at him. He lifted one of his broad hands and placed it on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo looked at his hand, how it engulfed the entire join of the upper part of his arm, and felt the warmth of it burning through his clothes. 

Bilbo did not know what to say.

“Your Majesty - “ he said, haltingly, seeking for something,  _ anything  _ to break this awful tension between them. But it seemed like the wrong thing to say. Thorin drew himself up, and the line of his mouth twisted.

“Why must you call me that, Bilbo?” he whispered. His voice was raw with pain and anger. “Do I mean so little to you, that you address me as your king, and not your friend?”

“Of course not!” Bilbo said indignantly, then his voice wavered. “It’s just - it’s just not proper, that’s all. A silly little hobbit, calling the king by name? That’s just not done.”

“You are far from a silly little hobbit to  _ me _ ,” Thorin said unhappily, but he withdrew his hand. Bilbo realised that even though his grip on Bilbo’s shoulder had tightened almost to the point of pain, he had not hurt Bilbo. 

Even in his anger Thorin would not hurt him - at least, not when he was in his right mind, Bilbo thought bitterly. 

Thorin was still watching him. His eyes were hooded, although they burned bright with passion and a thousand different emotions. Some dwarrows thought Thorin aloof, and arrogant, and cold, Bilbo remembered, and he scoffed inwardly. No, it was not that Thorin was remote or emotionless in any way - rather, it was that he felt too deeply, and so felt the need to lock his emotions away. That part of Thorin, at least, Bilbo still knew, and understood. 

Suddenly, Thorin moved towards him. He grasped Bilbo’s hands and looked earnestly into his eyes.

“Bilbo,” he began, “you must know how I feel for you. How I - I hurt you badly, I know that much, but surely you  _ must  _ know how I wish to  - “

“Is everything alright?” called Oddvar, and Bilbo startled to realise he was coming up the garden path. He had his hand on the sword strapped to his waist, but as he came in view of them and caught sight of Thorin he relaxed and smiled. “I heard a disturbance,” he explained. “I thought something might have happened to you.”

Thorin dropped Bilbo’s hands like hot coals. 

“Forgive me, Master Baggins,” he said, to Bilbo, and his voice shook slightly, before he mastered himself. “I have overstepped my boundaries.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said quickly. He very much wanted to hear what Thorin had been about to say. Irritated, he turned to Oddvar and said, “Do you mind - ?”

“It is of no matter,” Thorin interrupted, and Bilbo turned incredulously back to him. Now Thorin stood, curiously shrunken, and looking very old and very tired. He could not quite look Bilbo in the eye.

“I will see you tomorrow night for our dinner,” he murmured, and without waiting for a reply, he walked off, stopping only to bow to Oddvar.

“Wait! What were you going to - “ exclaimed Bilbo desperately, but it was too late. Thorin had left the garden with surprising speed, for his bulk.

A moment passed in which Bilbo was too stunned to react, then he whirled around and laid into Oddvar.

“You terrible dwarf!” he cried. “What awful timing you have! Why, just a few more seconds and I would have - I would have heard - “ Abruptly his anger deserted him and he turned away from Oddvar, hiding his face in shame.

“No - it is not your fault,” he murmured, “not your fault at all. It is only - this whole, confounded business - “

Oddvar touched his shoulder gently, and Bilbo turned slowly around to face him again. There was an understanding look on Oddvar’s simple face, and he smiled in a rather nice, quiet, compassionate way. 

Suddenly Bilbo wanted very badly to talk to him, to tell him of his troubles.

“May I confess something to you?” Bilbo asked, the calm of his voice frightening even himself. “I - I have never felt so lost, and confused, in my  _ life.” _

Oddvar took his hand, and led him to the bench in the centre of the garden. Bilbo looked at the plot of land beside the bench, in which he had planted his acorn, and the urge to cry came suddenly upon him. He had never been especially prone to waterworks - in fact, he could count the number of times he had cried in his life on one hand, his parents’ funeral being one of those occasions - so the feeling took him by surprise, and he was glad there was a bench onto which he could conveniently collapse. 

“We are always only hurting each other,” he whispered, clenching his jaw to hold back his tears, “always only lying and apologising to each other. I’ve forgotten how to speak to him, how to read him, and yet - and yet - oh, how he confuses me, and yet he brings me so much joy. I didn’t realise I’d forgotten how to live before - before the journey, and, I know, it wasn’t just him, it was the whole damn company, and the whole damn adventure, but now I feel like there’s a great wall between us and somehow I can’t find a way over. To him. Oh, damn it all!” He beat his fists angrily on the bench, now quite aroused with anger. 

“I fear he will never recover from my betrayal,” he cried. “I fear  _ I  _ will never forgive him for  _ his  _ betrayal - no, that’s a lie, it’s a damn lie. I’ve already forgiven him. I never even really blamed him in the first place.” His voice was now very small.

Although he stiffened as Oddvar put one tentative arm around him, he quickly relaxed and leaned into the embrace. It was rather a nice feeling, he decided blearily, to be coddled and fussed over like so, when one was in a temper. And Oddvar was so very good at the whole patting-the-top-of-his-head thing.

After a few more moments of silence Oddvar finally spoke.

“I understand fully, Bilbo,” he said, and Bilbo was surprised to hear that his voice was taut with anger. “The king is a fool, to not see what is in front of his very nose.”

He looked at Bilbo and smiled wearily. “I consider you a friend, Bilbo, and it angers me to see you hurt so,” he said. “She was right.  _ Mahtakdazi.” _

Bilbo looked at him in confusion, not recognising the Khuzdul word, but Oddvar patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and gave no explanation. He looked back down at his lap and fiddled with the hem of his waistcoat.

“Oh, I’m so dreadfully unhappy, Oddvar,” he mumbled. “If I didn’t have my garden - why, I think I’d go mad.”

“Be assured,” Oddvar replied, cryptically. “All will be well. I will swear that to you on my mother’s grave.”

*

“Be assured,” Oddvar said, again, from where he stood in front of Bilbo’s breakfast table.  “My intentions are pure.”

Bilbo dropped his scone and did not bother to pick it up.

“You - You’re - what did you just say?” he spluttered, wondering if perhaps he’d finally gone mad at last. Because there was simply no other conceivable notion to explain why he’d - why - 

“I wish to court you, Master Bilbo,” Oddvar repeated, patiently. He flashed his most rakish smile, and whipped something out of the many pockets in his coat. “For you,” he said - and it was a lovely, lovely bouquet of flowers carved from precious twinkling gems and set in settings of silver and gold. Bilbo touched the petal of one of the tulips bursting from the bouquet, awestruck by its beauty - it seemed so real, as if he could but lean forward and the fragrance of the flowers would infuse his senses - but no, as his fingers touched the tulip, he realised it was cold to the touch, and the feeling was jarring.

“It’s - it’s truly stunning, Oddvar,” he whispered, then abruptly he recalled the circumstances in which the gift was being presented. “But - a  _ courtship _ ? Oddvar, we hardly know each other! I - I don’t even know your favourite food, your favourite colour - why, we have only known each other for a few weeks now, and how can you have come to care for me in that time?” His voice came out squeaky and incredulous, for truly he was flabbergasted by the sudden proposal.

Oddvar bowed, still holding the bouquet out in his hands. “You are a very special hobbit, Master Bilbo,” he said gently, although the words carried clearly to Bilbo’s ears. “Even before meeting you, I was awed by your bravery and determination, in helping us reclaim our home from the dragon. And when I met you - I was charmed by your wit, and erudition, and your devotion to your odd little garden.” Suddenly he straightened, and pinned Bilbo with a piercing gaze. “Is it so difficult to believe that someone could have fallen for a hobbit of your calibre in so short a time? I fear you underestimate your charisma, Master Bilbo.”

“This is - this is far too sudden,” Bilbo managed, collapsing back into his chair. “Although I am very fond of you, Oddvar, and I find you a pleasant companion - more than pleasant, in fact! - I have to say it is far too soon for any respectable hobbit to enter a courtship, in such circumstances!”

“There is, perhaps, someone else you have in mind?” Oddvar inquired, his voice deceptively soft. “Someone else whose courtship you desire? Someone, perhaps, who has not spoken, who has not laid claim on you, someone whose affections give you reason to deny me my suit?” 

Something flashed through Bilbo’s mind at Oddvar’s words. There was, perhaps, just  _ one  _ dwarf…

But no, that was lost to him now. 

“No,” Bilbo said, but he stumbled on the word. “No, I do not,” he said again, and this time his voice came stronger, more confident. “It is only the sudden nature of your suit - it is just not done, among hobbitkind, to pursue a courtship not based on mutual love.”

“If you are sure that there is no one who occupies your fancy - “ here Oddvar paused meaningfully, but Bilbo could not make meaning of his hesitance - “will you not give me a chance? I promise you, I would make you a good husband, if you would but give me an opportunity to show you.”

Bilbo had to admit, to himself, that it was largely the thought of Thorin which kept him aloof from Oddvar’s intentions. But he was quite sure that there would not be -  _ could  _ not be - further advances in that arena. 

If such was the case, why should he pine for someone who did not return his affections?

Bilbo looked at Oddvar’s open, earnest face, turned towards him with a spark of hope in his lively eyes, and he recalled their conversations of the past two weeks of their acquaintance. It was true that the two of them had struck up a friendship of sorts, and Oddvar was a fine dwarf indeed, not just comely in stature, but also surprisingly understanding and considerate of his alien status among the secretive and suspicious dwarrows. 

“...I will think on it,” Bilbo said finally, and he realised his hand had closed so tightly around the armrest of his chair that the wood was digging painfully into his palm.

Oddvar’s face lit up with a smile, and he swiftly tucked the bouquet of flowers back into his pocket. 

“Then I will speak no more of this to you, unless you indicate otherwise,” he said. “Now, I believe you had an errand to run at the library with Master Ri - ?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me, Oddvar,” Bilbo said, hastily seizing his waistcoat from where it had been hung in his closet, and putting it on. Ori had requested his help with some Westron-Sindarin translations from the small trove of Elvish books in the Erebor library, and he was going to be late.

“Well, come along now,” he said mildly to Oddvar. But as he walked past him to pass through the doors, suddenly and with a movement out of his control he flinched away from Oddvar’s hand coming to rest on the small of his back. Oddvar raised a questioning brow at him, and Bilbo flushed guiltily in response.

“Give me - give me some time to get used to it,” he managed. 

Oddvar inclined his head, a strangely regal motion that reminded Bilbo of - of someone, and stepped back to allow Bilbo to pass impeded. But as Bilbo walked out of the doors, he said softly, “I did not wish to upset you, Master Bilbo. Think no more of my proposal, if you must, and if it brings you more comfort. I can assure you that neither I nor my friendship would be lost to you if you were to turn me down.”

Bilbo nodded, a jerky motion, and set off at a quick trot to the library.

Later, he was still thinking of it, as he sat at Thorin’s table poking morosely at Bombur’s mushroom stew.

“You are of ill appetite this evening, Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbled, a tinge of amusement in his voice. Bilbo thought sourly that at least  _ he  _ seemed to have forgotten their little fracas of the previous day quickly enough. 

“I ate heavily at afternoon tea,” he replied softly, and reluctantly pressed a spoonful of the stew into his mouth to satisfy Thorin. But Thorin was not so easily diverted. 

“Is the food not to your liking?” he said, and this time his voice was quieter, more unsure. 

“Oh, it is, it is, Bombur’s cooking is excellent, as always. I told you, I had a little too much for tea, that’s all.”

They spent the next few minutes in silence, punctuated only by the sound of Thorin’s knife scraping across his plate as he cut his steak. Bilbo noted absently that Thorin was making a marked effort to be more polite in his eating, and by the way he handled the cutlery with confident ease, it was certainly difficult to tell that he much preferred the use of his fingers when eating. 

“What ails you, Master Baggins?” was Thorin’s final attempt to draw Bilbo out of his shell, and Bilbo suddenly felt guilty for his reticence. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something made up about the cave crawlers disturbing his garden, but he found that the words that spilled from his tongue came entirely unbidden.

“Oddvar proposed to court me, today,” he said, and the words were disproportionately loud in the still silence of the room.

Thorin didn’t say anything at first. He cut up the last piece of his steak, brought the two halves to his mouth and chewed, then he laid down his cutlery on his plate. 

“And?” he said. His voice was neutral, with no inflection at all. “What did you say?”

Suddenly some demon seemed to come alive in Bilbo’s heart. He had not expected Thorin to take the news with such calmness, with such… such  _ indifference,  _ and it incensed him.

“What do  _ you  _ think I said?” he said recklessly, almost rebelliously, setting down his fork with a dissonant clank. The fire in the hearth flared with a sudden roar. 

“Of course you accepted,” Thorin said, still in that insufferable, infuriatingly-impassive tone of voice. “Oddvar is a good dwarf. He will make you very happy. And of course we will ensure your wedding is suitably lavish and elaborate, as befits the wedding of a hero of Erebor. I am sure he will make you very happy.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” Bilbo said. “So you approve of our courtship? You give us your blessing?”

“I give you my blessing,” Thorin said softly. “If he makes you happy.”

“Stop  _ saying _ that!” Vaguely Bilbo was aware that he was now standing and yelling the words out into Thorin’s dispassionate face. “ _ If he makes me happy _ \- how could anyone make me happy? How could anyone make me as happy as I am when - “ He cut himself off, and braced his hands on the table. He felt that if he did not do so, he would do something terribly stupid, like grab Thorin’s face and try to kiss him. Or, alternatively, wrap his fingers around Thorin’s neck and attempt to choke him to death. 

“Oddvar is a good dwarf,” Thorin repeated. He seemed to be doing that a lot, repeating himself over and over again. “Dís sings his praises whenever I mention his name, and Dwalin approves of his skills, and even Fíli and Kíli enjoy being around him. He would - he would make you a good husband.”

“And what do you feel?” Bilbo asked, quietly. “What do  _ you  _ feel about this?”

Then Thorin’s self-possession seemed to break, all of a sudden. Abruptly he stood from the table and stalked over to the fireplace, where he lit his pipe with hands that seemed to be trembling. 

“Do not ask me what I feel, Master Burglar,” he growled, and the smoke poured from his mouth like it had from Smaug’s great maw. “I feel nothing. Nothing at all.”

He made a strange figure indeed, standing with the light from the hearth casting his profile in veins of gold and flickering flame, and his regal shoulders hunched tragically. His face was terrible to look upon.

“Liar,” Bilbo said coldly, and it shocked him, the depth of anger and raw  _ hurt  _ he felt in his heart at that moment, yet his words came out steady and cool. “You awful, lying dwarf. You would lie to hurt yourself and to hurt me. So be it.”

He turned and left the room. The door slammed behind him with a frightfully loud thud. 

“Do not follow me!” he said firmly to Oddvar, who was staring at him with a strange look on his face. When he sensed that Oddvar would not listen, impulsively, he yanked the ring from where it had been kept in his breast pocket, and slipped it over his finger. The startled cries of Oddvar and the other guards followed him as he ran through the corridor and to the one place which would bring him absolution.

As he crouched over his acorn, Bilbo wept bitterly. It had been a week already, and yet the tree had not grown. Perhaps it would never grow. Perhaps he had loved it too much, for it to grow. There were some things, he had learned, which would never come to you no matter how hard you prayed and wished and cried. Perhaps this, like his love for Thorin, was one of those things.

It would be best if he left for the Shire, he told himself. He felt that he would not be able to look upon Thorin the same way again. And it seemed that things in the Shire were simpler, less fraught with emotions and heartbreak and complicated things like that. He had few friends here, only among the company and Oddvar, and he knew little of dwarven habits and customs. He knew nothing of their language, since there were none who would teach him, not even Balin or Ori. Even his garden was an anomaly, something which dwarrows gossiped about and belittled when they thought him out of earshot.

Yes, perhaps his place was in the Shire, among hobbits, where he belonged.

But even as he wiped the tears from his face he knew he would not leave. Could not leave, in fact. He knew that he would miss the way the sun shone into his room from his little glass window - he had been given one of the few windowed rooms in Erebor, a favour he had greatly appreciated. He knew that he would miss Balin’s wise smile, and Bofur’s good cheer, and Fíli and Kíli’s mischief, and Óin and Dori’s fussy concern, and Ori’s excitement at a new book to read, and Dwalin’s gruff affection, and… and…

And he would miss Thorin. Oh, how dearly he would miss Thorin.

_ No, _ Bilbo thought resolutely.  _ Erebor is my home, now. I’m not going to leave it just because of a stubborn dwarf king. I’m not a coward.  _

Suddenly he remembered the way Thorin had looked as he stood by the hearth, staring emptily at the burning coals of the fire, and he felt one last tear leak from the corner of his eye. 

*

When Bilbo woke, he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why his eyes ached and he felt so ill at ease. Then, all at once, the events of the previous day came rushing back to him - how Oddvar had proposed courtship to him, how he had spoken of it to Thorin, and how Thorin had - how he had - 

To think of it brought a twinge to Bilbo’s heart, and unconsciously his hand flew up to his chest. He stayed in bed wallowing in his own sorrow and anger for a few more minutes, then he rolled off and began his morning ablutions.

After having paused three times while brushing his teeth to stare dully into the mirror, stubbed his toe twice on the bed post and put on his waistcoat backwards, he gave it all up as a bad job and stomped into his room half-dressed. His breakfast had already been served by one of Bombur’s silent apprentices, and usually the sight of fresh blueberry jam and pancakes would have cheered him up immensely, but now as he sat at the table and stared at the dishes he realised he had completely lost his appetite. But he knew that he would regret it if he did not take breakfast, and so he forced himself to take a few perfunctory bites of the pancakes. It tasted like ash in his mouth. The jam and honey he did not touch.

Suddenly there was a heavy knock at the door, and Bilbo dropped his knife.

He listened, heart hammering, for the next knock, and when it came he swallowed his disappointment. He knew that knock, and it was Dwalin.

“I’m NOT at home,” he yelled angrily, and shovelled a few more bites of pancakes into his mouth.

“Bilbo, I know ye’re there,” came the patient reply. “Open the door.”

“Do you dwarrows not understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?” Bilbo retorted. “I  _ said, _ I’m NOT at home!”

There was a pause, as if Dwalin was considering his next words carefully. Then a thud as he laid his head on the door. 

“Ori began courtin’ me,” he began, “when the first stone was laid for the rebuilding of the library. Said it was the right time for new beginnings, and I was one of the new beginnings he wanted. I turned him down.”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering this story, except it had been told to him from the perspective of a particularly irate Ori.

“Ye know why?” Dwalin asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Thought I wasn’t good enough for him. Thought I didnae deserve a dwarf like Ori. He’s nice, kind, young and beautiful, a scholar, everythin’ I’m not. So I turned him down.”

_ What does that have to do with me,  _ Bilbo wanted to ask nastily, but he realised he couldn’t do that to a friend. Couldn’t take out his anger on Dwalin, who was clearly trying his best to do who only knew what.

Another hesitation, and when the words came they sounded like they were coming through gritted teeth. Dwalin’s brogue had thickened. “We’re battle-hardened warriors, me an’ Thorin. Don’t think we deserve anythin’, fer the things we’ve done an’ the things we’ve seen. I thought Ori wasn’t mine to have, didnae think I deserved his love, and I didnae even threaten his life. Don’t know how to put it so ye’ll hear what I’m saying. That’s all I wanted to say.“

There was a click as Bilbo thrust open his door and glared out on Dwalin’s grave face. 

“Did Thorin send you?” demanded Bilbo, too incensed to care about propriety.

“He wants to see you,” rumbled Dwalin. “He’s sorry.”

“I like that!” shouted Bilbo. “Oh, I like that, very much! Well, you can tell the  _ king, _ he can bloody well come and tell me himself, if he can find the time out of his busy schedule, and if it so pleases him!” and he slammed the door in Dwalin’s face.

The next moment there was another knock on the door, and Bilbo flung it open, fully intending to lay into Dwalin again, but the words dried up on his tongue as Thorin loomed suddenly in front of him.

There was a split-second as Bilbo’s mind went,  _ what? _

And he shook his head, said firmly “No”, and slammed the door shut.

Or tried to, at least. Thorin’s hand caught it as it swung shut, and he pressed himself into the gap left between the door and the door frame.

“Bilbo,” he said, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “I wish to speak to you. Please. You must listen to me.”

“I  _ must?” _ Bilbo mocked. “Is that an  _ order, _ o King?” He could hardly recognise himself, his voice twisted by bitterness and anger. 

Thorin shut his eyes as if he were in pain, his lashes fanning against his flushed cheeks, and that, more than anything, caused Bilbo’s heart to soften suddenly. No, he would not do this, even in the depths of his fiercest anger - would not force Thorin, the King Under the Mountain, to conduct a domestic argument in the middle of the corridor, with many prying eyes and ears in close vicinity. Bilbo could not take his dignity away from him, even in spite. 

“I didn’t think you knew the way here,” was his last barb. Silently he held open the door, making no other movement to indicate entry. Dwalin, the bastard, was nowhere to be found, as was his morning guard. They had evidently wisely made themselves scarce at the earliest opportunity. Thorin stepped into the room, and Bilbo realised he had a black eye.

The bruising stretched under his eyelid and turned his skin a mottled greyish-yellow. Momentarily Bilbo’s anger was overtaken by concern for Thorin’s wellbeing - it must have been a hefty punch which had caused such an injury indeed.

“What happened to your  _ eye _ ?” he said.

Thorin flushed even further, and he dropped his head. “Dís,” he mumbled. “She - ah, she came to my quarters last night, and when she heard about our argument she… well, she has a strong right arm.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, but he was forestalled by Thorin, who lifted a hand to stop him.

“Bilbo,” he said quietly. “I apologise if I hurt you last night. I was not completely honest with you, I must admit, although I did so because I had thought that my sentiments would not be well received. I thought that you were better off with Oddvar. I thought that you had already made up your mind to accept his courtship, and I did not want to be an obstacle in the path of your relationship. I was ready to respect your choice, and step aside gracefully for Oddvar. But… But I have come to realise that I wish not to let you leave me without expressing my… my regard for you.”

From behind his back he drew out a tiny wooden box which was smaller than the breadth of his palm. It was decorated with ornate carvings of flowers embedded with precious gemstones. Bilbo took the box with shaking fingers, and realised with a start that the flowers were niphredil and elanor, the treasured blossoms of Cerin Amroth, the great hill of Lothlórien. As he opened the box a sweet smell emanated from the contents, a scent that reminded him of springtime in the Shire.

The box was filled with grey earth, so fine as to resemble dust and ash, and instinctively Bilbo knew that if he scattered this earth in his garden, his flowers and herbs and shrubs would grow as strong and splendid and of as exceptional quality as the famed mallorns of the Golden Wood.

“Thorin,” he breathed, awe-struck. “How - how did you - “

“When first you spoke of a garden,” Thorin said softly, “I sent to the Golden Wood and Rivendell for earth from the elven gardens to speed your blossoms on their way. I had thought to present it to you the morning of last week’s dinner, but I thought - I saw Oddvar’s gift to you, and I saw the affection on his face, and I knew it would not be long before he declared his intentions for you. I did not wish to interfere in your courtship, and yet - and yet I am weak. I thought still that I could dine with you and speak with you and be able to hide my feelings for you. I was wrong. I am not as strong as - as that.” His voice broke on the last few words, and they were lost in the thickness of his voice. 

Bilbo could not speak. He cradled the box in the palm of his hand, running his fingers over the intricacies of the delicate carvings, a thousand sentences and confessions and emotions thrumming through his mind, but still he could not find the words to speak.

Thorin was watching him. Bilbo could tell. He could always tell whenever Thorin was watching him. 

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said at last, forlornly. “‘Tis not a gift of my own hand. ‘Tis not even a proper courting gift. There is no obligation on you to accept it - in fact, I do not expect you to want it, not when you have the suit of a far more deserving dwarf. I was not going to gift it to you, but last night… Dís spoke to me, and I thought… I thought that even if it were hopeless, perhaps you might take it as a gift from a - from a friend. I thought that - perhaps I might try anyway.” He shrugged helplessly. 

“Oh, you - !” Bilbo could not find anything to say for a moment, so enraged was he at Thorin’s utter _thickheaded-ness_. Why, the gall of this dwarf - to assume that Bilbo felt nothing for him, and had instead turned his attentions to Oddvar - 

But then he realised that he himself was guilty of false assumptions. He himself had thought Thorin cold to his affections, had thought of Thorin’s regard for him as that afforded for nothing more than a little hobbit friend - and not so great a friend as all that, he had thought. 

He lifted his hand, to do he knew not what - perhaps to punch Thorin in the stomach, or grab him by his collar and attempt to shake him about, but instead he found his fingers fisting in the warm furs that covered Thorin’s arms and pulling him closer. 

“Thorin,” he sighed, “you awful, awful dwarf!” and then he lifted his head and pressed a quick, absent kiss to the side of Thorin’s very dear and very confused face. The hairs of Thorin’s beard scratched against his skin, and unconsciously he nuzzled against Thorin’s cheek for a few more moments, savouring the sensation, before withdrawing. 

When he drew back and looked into Thorin’s eyes, he was met with a look of utter puzzlement. Bilbo realised Thorin’s hands were held at waist level, hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Bilbo’s waist, as if he were unsure whether to touch Bilbo or not. Bilbo hesitated but for a moment, and decided to solve that problem by placing the box on the nearby table, then stepping closer and drawing Thorin’s arms around him in a tentative embrace. 

“Does that mean you want to court me?” he murmured, and turned his face upwards to peer earnestly into Thorin’s eyes. 

Thorin exhaled, a gusty sigh, and his eyes drifted half-shut, a movement that did not diminish the intensity of his gaze.

“If - If you will have me,” he rumbled, and Bilbo could feel the reverberation of his deep voice through Bilbo’s skin, now that they were pressed close together. It broke his heart to hear the uncertainty in Thorin’s voice - in Thorin, who had always approached every decision with a surety that inspired confidence and, yes, love. Instinctively he curled the fingers of his other hand into the tunic that peeked out from Thorin’s furs at the nape of his neck, and the warmth of Thorin’s skin against his fingertips calmed him.

“We have much to discuss then,” Bilbo said softly. “I… I fear we have only been hurting each other in our recent interactions. I did not know what you wanted from me, and I made assumptions about your feelings for me, and for that I apologise as well. But, Thorin - “ and now he drew back slightly and stared resolutely up at Thorin, “ - I’ll say it once, now, and you had better listen to me - I have no romantic feelings for Oddvar, and I’d only considered accepting his suit because I’d thought you unavailable to me. Because I thought you would spurn my - my affections, my love for you. And that’s - that’s all I have to say,” he added, lamely, almost as an afterthought.

At his words Thorin clutched him tight to his chest and buried his face in Bilbo’s neck. His breath came harshly, fanning across Bilbo’s skin, as if he had run a mile, and his voice was muffled when next he spoke, rasping and hoarse from his throat. 

“Thank Mahal,” he whispered, a fervent prayer. “Dís was right - oh, she was right, Bilbo. I had not dared to hope that you would care for me - that you could even forgive me for what I did to you. Even though I know it cannot hope to make up for how I have erred, I give you now my sincerest apologies for what I did when under the spell of the dragon-hoard. I was not myself, but I know that it is no excuse, and I can only apologise for what I did to you and hope that in time, you will forgive me.”

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said, and he could not quite keep the raw fondness out of his voice. “I’d already forgiven you, a long time ago. I know that, were you of your right mind, you wouldn’t have done that to me, and I know you never intended to cause me harm. Besides,” he added, sudden uncertainty rising up in his throat, “I’m the one who should apologise. I betrayed your trust. I took the heirloom of your people to your greatest enemies. I thought you drew away from me because you no longer trusted me, and could not find it in yourself to forgive me.” He pressed his face into the collar of Thorin's coat, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “Won’t you forgive me, now?”

Thorin pulled away from him with an incredulous look writ across his face. “Me, forgive you?” he spluttered. “There is nothing to forgive. You did it for my sake, and for the sake of the company. I’ll not accept any apologies you can give. I can only curse myself for being the stubborn fool that I was, to have forced you into so drastic an action. Bilbo,” he said, more quietly this time, linking his fingers with Bilbo’s and drawing them up close to his chest between their bodies, “please understand. I was wholly in the wrong, and you mustn't blame yourself for any of your actions then. You did what was right, and I did not see it then, but I see it now. There is nothing to forgive.’

‘Also,” he cleared his throat, and looked, if possible, even more pained. “I fear I was neglecting you, in the early days after Erebor’s reclamation. I was amiss in not seeing that you were being harassed by unwanted attentions.”

“It’s alright. You were busy. I understand,” Bilbo muttered, looking down at their linked hands. 

“I used my work as an excuse,” Thorin admitted, and his fingers clutched like a vise around Bilbo’s. “I did not know how to face you, how to apologise to you for my actions against you which were heinous beyond measure. I feared you would not forgive me, and so I sought to distance myself from you, to give you time to recover.”

“You hurt me,” Bilbo whispered, and the sound of his voice was harsh and dissonant in the cold clean morning air streaming in from his window. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore, not even as a friend.”

“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin said, and he pulled Bilbo close again. This time he pressed kisses to the side of Bilbo’s neck, his lips dragging in desperate movements against Bilbo’s skin. “I could never not want you. Could never leave you. It was my fault for pushing you away.” 

Bilbo breathed out, the edge of his breath hitching up in a moan as Thorin’s beard scraped roughly against his skin. His fingers tightened where they had been fisted in Thorin’s tunic, and he felt himself tremble. His voice was querulous when next he spoke.

“We must put all of this behind us, Thorin,” he murmured, “if we are to build a lasting relationship. I love you, and you love me, and we  _ must promise _ to be clearer in our communication with each other, if we are to be - to be lovers.” He relished the feel of the word on his tongue.

“Yes. Yes, we must,” Thorin mumbled, his words muffled by his ardent lovemaking. Bilbo stifled a laugh and pushed gently at him.

“Get off,” he said, no longer disguising the fond exasperation in his voice. “It’s well past eight o’ clock, and I have no doubt that if you take any longer, that’ll be Balin at the door asking for you in that snippy fashion of his. Get on with your important kinging business, why don’t you. No use neglecting your people just for the sake of a silly old hobbit.”

Thorin detached himself from Bilbo’s embrace with marked reluctance, and stood only staring at Bilbo with a slow, sure affection in his gaze. It was one of his melting-into-the-ground stares, and Bilbo told himself that he was going to have to get used to receiving a lot more of these stares now that he and Thorin were going to be involved.

“Well?” he said peevishly, when Thorin had held him and gazed upon him for a few minutes without a word. “Aren’t you going to get going? I don’t fancy having my door banged on by another angry dwarf, you know. Balin’s a lot stronger than he looks, especially when he gets angry.”

“I will see you again tonight, Master Burglar,” said Thorin, and the return to formality would have been disconcerting, were it not for the tinge of amusement that edged his tone. “By the way,” he added, all too casually, “you might like to know - Oddvar used to be Dís’ personal guard, you know. And I have it on very good authority - from my good sister, in fact, straight from the horse's mouth - that the two of them have been colluding to push us together.”

“You mean - “ Bilbo gasped. 

Thorin smiled and raised his hands in a placating fashion. “I am as innocent a party in this as you, Bilbo,” he said. “But I thought you might want to know. You know, in preparation for when Oddvar returns in a few minutes as your guard.”

“Oh, that - that mud-eating, goat-licking - that  _ kakhuf inbarathrag _ !” Bilbo cursed, and then realised he didn’t actually know the meaning of the dwarven curse when Thorin reared back and stared at him disbelievingly. Then Thorin threw back his head, and laughed - a full on, bellowing, raucous laugh that shook him all the way down to his toes. 

When he had recovered he clapped his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and twinkled down at him. 

“Oh, Bilbo,” he murmured, sweetly, “you never fail to surprise me. And I mean that in an altogether good way. Remember to give Oddvar a good tongue-lashing, for me as well, and Dís, if you’re so inclined in that direction. Although the latter will be a sight I will be sore to miss.”

*

“I can’t  _ believe  _ the two of you were conspiring against me and Thorin,” Bilbo said crankily, when later Oddvar and Dís turned up at Oddvar’s appointed time, both looking unsatisfactorily mischievous and unperturbed by Bilbo’s angry mien.

“You're both idiots,” Dís said frankly. “Well - you, to a lesser extent, Bilbo, but Thorin's just an altogether different story. Head as thick as a mule, that one has, and when he got it into his mind that somehow he didn't deserve you and didn't want to impose on you…” She shook her head exasperatedly. “It called for desperate measures.”

Something flashed into Bilbo's mind, something someone had said to him, not so long ago - and then he groaned and put his head in his hands. 

“Balin was part of this too, wasn't he?” Bilbo grumbled. “That crafty old bugger. But I suppose I should thank you, Dís, for beating  _ some  _ sense into Thorin, at least. And you - !” He spun around and levelled an accusing finger at Oddvar. “You, with your proposal and your plotting and your planning - oh, by Yavanna! Mushrooms, my hairy foot! You saw Thorin in my garden that day, didn't you? And you didn't want me to see him. Oh bother, I suppose I  _ must  _ thank you as well,” he conceded reluctantly. “Your proposal was meant to spur Thorin on, was it not?”

Oddvar shrugged, and his casual unrepentance infuriated Bilbo slightly. “We thought such a drastic measure would push Thorin into finally acting. We hardly expected his self-effacement to be of such great extent.”

“Yes, I fear I let my temper get the better of me,” Djs admitted. She sighed, and shook her head, making the various jewelleries in her hair and on her ears jingle. “But when Oddvar came to fetch me last night and told me you'd stormed off in a huff - well, I know my brother well, and I know the extent to which his pig-headedness sometimes extends. Especially when it comes to seeking his own happiness. He has lived so long without taking care joy for his own, and giving himself wholeheartedly to our people, that he has forgotten that he deserves love as well. Bilbo,” she said passionately, taking Bilbo's hands in hers in a motion eerily similar to Thorin's, “you must take care of him. I will not do you an injustice by threatening you bodily harm if you hurt him, for I know that if that happens it is very likely that he invited your wrath onto himself with his foolishness. But all the same I implore you to care for him, and be patient with him, for he does love you, and I think you love him with equal magnitude. I think you will be happy with each other, although I am no seer or prophecy-monger - I only want you to be happy, and I think my brother can make you happy.”

Her fierce love for both him and Thorin touched Bilbo deeply, as did her trust in him. They had known each other only a month or so now, but already Bilbo felt her a sister like the sister he had never had. As for Oddvar, although Bilbo still felt mildly peeved at the way he and Dís had gone behind his and Thorin's back to plot and plan, he did consider Oddvar a cherished friend. It made him unmeasurably happy, it did, to know that he had gathered so dear a company of friends around him. 

Balin… well, Balin was an old fox, but it was nothing Bilbo hadn't already known. Some of the things he'd said had been highly suspect, all right, and Bilbo wondered at how he hadn't guessed at the plot at first. 

And speaking of Balin… Bilbo smiled. Perhaps he  _ would _ take Balin up on one of his offers, in the end… 

***

In the end Bilbo consented to having  _ one _ statue built in his garden. Just the one. 

He never did end up planting Thranduil's orchids in his garden, placing them instead in the communal park Thorin had commissioned him to build. Indeed, while his official title was now Consort Under the Mountain, he much preferred his humbler moniker, by which his closer friends addressed him - the Royal Garden-Keeper, for his efforts in the greening of the sterile stone halls of Erebor. One of his proudest days had been when he'd been in the park’s flower beds and a little beardling had squatted down next to him to press her stubby little fingers into the dirt. Reluctantly her parents had allowed her to coax them into bending and burying Bilbo's begonia seeds under the soil, and Bilbo was of the firm opinion that they had left with a much greater appreciation of ‘dirt and green things’, as Oddvar had so eloquently called his planting endeavours. 

Oh - but back to his little garden! Bilbo did so love to digress. 

He did not allow anyone but his dearest friends to enter his garden, and only strictly in his presence were they allowed in, for the bust he had placed in the pedestal under his oak tree was so intimate, so personal an effect of his, that he did not wish any but his loved ones to gaze upon it. 

For it was a bust of Thorin - not clad in his royal robes, no, nor with the grave, regal expression which blessed many of the wall-carvings in the communal gardens and the corridors, but of the side of Thorin that only Bilbo saw. It was a carven image of Thorin in repose, the gaze of those bright eyes intense and somehow full of life despite being carved of lifeless stone, his beard full and threaded through with the beads of his marriage braids. It was Thorin bereft of his crown and other kingly trappings, clad in a simple robe, the side of Thorin Bilbo loved best. 

The pedestal he had instructed Balin’s workers to place under the eaves of the oak tree. Something had changed in the central plot of land the moment Bilbo had carefully sprinkled some of the Lorien dirt onto the soil, and very quickly the acorn had sprouted and grown. Now it stretched tall towards the cavernous ceiling of the room, towards the light reflecting from the mirrors, a majestic centrepiece to his homely hobbit garden. Both Bilbo and Thorin loved the tree dearly, and it became a monthly ritual, for them to have a picnic on the bench under the tree and speak quietly and intimately without the worry of prying ears. 

Sometimes when Thorin angered him Bilbo would retreat to his garden and sit beneath the shade of its branches. Somehow when he sat there and soaked in the warmth of the light streaming in from above, the rustling of grass under his bare feet, and when he gazed upon the peaceful stone face of Thorin at ease, he found he could not stay angry at the dwarven king for long.

Some years later, when Frodo was orphaned and came to live with Bilbo in the mountain, so very far away from the Shire, Bilbo would seat the little fauntling on his knee, and tell him stories under the great oak tree. Once, Frodo sat playing in the grass at the base of the tree, and he looked up with his beautiful blue eyes at Bilbo.

“Uncle Bilbo,” he said, his high, clear voice carrying far in the emptiness of the room, “How did you get married to Uncle Thorin? Uncle Balin always refuses to tell the story when I ask him, and Mister Ori always stops Fíli and Kíli whenever they try to tell me the story…”

Then Bilbo lifted Frodo onto his lap - Frodo was then still a small babe in arms, and light enough to be placed on Bilbo’s knee - and he smiled down at his beloved nephew. 

“Well, my dear Frodo,” he began, and went on, as all great stories are bound to go on: “It started with a dwarf. Well, it started with  _ two  _ dwarrows - one, your lovely Aunt Dís, and the other, my dear friend, Uncle Oddvar. And, of course, the story would be nothing, without your esteemed Uncle Bilbo here, and that awful, ox-headed lummox you call your Uncle Thorin…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have something crazy planned for the next fic, and if y'all are interested, y'all can hang around my [tumblr](https://unpeumacabre.tumblr.com) (where i'll be talking about it soon) and talk to me or drop me a prompt or something!! i'm nice i swear. leave a kudo or comment if you liked this!
> 
> (read on for rambly character dissections)  
> again, i wrote this fic bc i was dissatisfied w the fic being churned out in the bagginshield tag. too often we have dfp thorin or wilting flower bilbo and i was angry with what i saw as a gross misinterpretation of thorin and bilbo's characters. i mean, everyone has their own interpretation of characters, nothing wrong with that, but somehow fandom seemed to be positively SWAMPED with these interpretations. thorin is NOT overtly possessive, nor does he use excessive violence to get his way. and bilbo does not cry at the drop of a hat. & don't get me started on love at first sight fics... ugh. that's a whole other story (in fact, to counter _that_ trope, i wrote another story you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835434))  
> also, one more pet peeve: i refuse to write thorin self-pitying. there’s a difference between that and self-loathing, and there are so many stories where thorin is self-pitying and makes himself the victim and whinges about his gold-sickness, but 1. it's annoying and 2. he wouldn’t do that ie burden others w his insecurities, he would bottle them up and brood on them. even if he spoke about it (which he should! never bottle up your unhealthy feelings!) he would be extremely hesitant to do so and would present it in a vv self-deprecating way, not making himself the victim, and being v careful about others’ feelings.
> 
> (read on for notes on the story this time)  
> (1) balin is bilbo’s closest friend! in the book at least. that's why they talk so much here lol.  
> (2) the ironfists did send dwarrows to aid the longbeards against the orcs. since the orocarni are in the east there is little information on it, but I took the ironfist names from lotro/names of slavic origin. Halrubínu is adapted from hala rubíny, which means hall of rubies in czech (as near as I can get it - if native czech speakers could correct me on this…).  
> (3) mahtakdazi - melt the gold (bite the bullet), kakhuf inbarathrag - goat turd. translations courtesy of the dwarrow scholar.  
> (3) tharakh bazan is entirely a creation of lotro. god, i love that game...  
> (4) nope, men don’t put gnelfs or gnoblins in their gardens, they put gnomes, and you’ve just been gnomed  
> (5) apparently thorin’s favourite food is [mutton](http://richardarmitagecentral.co.uk/richards-twitter-qa-transcript-6th-december-2013/)?


End file.
